26012015 12:01
by Antonia Caenis
Summary: AU. Two years after the events of Post Finem Lucas finds himself faced with a request that he can't refuse. As the tension builds over the holiday season Harry and Ruth, on walkabout from their tropical mountain hideaway, inadvertently find themselves in the thick of it on the designated day. Kudos/BBC own what is theirs, the rest is my own.
1. Chapter 1

**1\. 18/11/2014**

 **05:10-06:15 Siding Bay, New South Wales South Coast**

Peach, apricot and lemon spilling like swathes of chiffon across a sky of the finest lavender silk greeted the small family as they emerged from the damp coolness of the forest. Stopping for a moment they surveyed the scene stretching before them, the world painted in pastels for these last few minutes before the sun hauled itself above the horizon to drench everything in harsh, white-limned brightness. Despite the slightest of silvery mists among the towering eucalypts at their backs, in front of them the view was clear. To their right a flat, wave-cut golden sandstone platform riven by faults and pockmarked with small, jewelled rockpools stretched many metres beyond the shore to continue its relentless and ultimately futile battle against the sea. Extending north from the platform a smooth expanse of fine silica sand, pinkish in the pre-dawn light, continued unbroken until meeting the rocky, wooded headland at the far end of the small bay. The sea itself was quiescent this morning, a clear, muted grey-green disturbed by only the slightest of swells that had barely enough energy to break, in a genteel manner, upon the shore.

Content that no unseen danger lurked the group moved again, towards the water's edge, spreading out as they went. The patriarch, bolder than the rest, made his way directly to the lapping shore, moving confidently through the glassy swash into the shallows where he stopped again, dark eyes scanning the sea surface as he listened, alert to every sound of the awakening morning. Nothing untoward registered so he continued forward, breasting the tiny waves until he was swimming strongly, keeping his head above water to maintain watch for now was the hour, despite its apparent calm, that sharks patrolled the shore, hungry for breakfast. Back on the beach two of the young ones were playing in the wavelets, not yet brave nor strong enough to follow him into the deeper water; further back, a mother and an aunt were casually checking things of interest that had washed up at the high tide mark.

Fifty metres offshore by now and already turning back to the beach the sound of splashing even further out alerted the male that he was no longer the only inhabitant of the bay. A glimpse of something dark among the low swell further out, although not moving fast, was enough to send his heart rate up and he made a bee-line for the shore, eternally grateful to feel sand underfoot again. As he hauled himself up and out of the littoral zone the rest of the family, alerted by his slightly precipitate return, came over to first join and then follow him further up the beach, back towards the safety of the bush. Once well away from the maximum reach of the waves he stopped and turned back again to see what was happening.

The dark shape was now considerably closer and larger than it first appeared. Within a minute the mystery had resolved itself, though, as the watching group saw the man stand while he was still waist-deep in the water and stride out, unzipping his wetsuit as he did so. Tall, muscular, dark-haired and slightly saturnine, he pulled the top half of the wetsuit completely off, leaving the sleeves trailing in the sand and revealing a torso covered in tattoo linework, slightly blurred around the edges. The watching group relaxed: they knew this man and knew they were safe with him.

As he made his way towards the back of the beach and the tree branch where he habitually hung his towel he noticed the mob watching him and grinned, wiping the last of the salt water off his face. They were here most days at this hour but had been absent for most of the past week and he had been starting to worry but now here they were, as large as life and gravely curious as ever and he was strangely glad to see them. Calling out a cheerful,

"Morning, all!" as he passed, several pairs of dark, lustrous, long-lashed eyes responded by turning his way, as did large, mobile ears as the mob of kangaroos considered the sound for a moment. One of the joeys decided to scramble back into its mother's pouch, breaking the spell between human and animals, and the mob turned and hopped slowly away. The man once known as Lucas North watched them go, still amazed after all this time that kangaroos could swim, and reached for his towel.

The sun suddenly broke free of its bounds and, in an instant, the world went from pastel to vivid: the beach gold, forest green and white and the water a suddenly glorious aquamarine shot with turquoise and edged in crushed diamonds. Remaining still he absorbed the view for a moment, breathing in the salt-scented air and feeling the gentle warmth of the sun on his face as, once more, he gave silent thanks that he was still alive and doing his best to live up to this one final chance that had been delivered to him out of the rancorous depths of his darkest despair. Whatever he thought his future might be back then it certainly wasn't this magical view and a silence that was only broken by the sounds of nature, tucked away in a small cove on the far side of the planet.

Shuffling his feet into leather sandals and tying the wetsuit sleeves around his waist so they stopped dragging in the dirt he threw the now-damp, slightly sticky towel around his shoulders and set off up the narrow dirt road that was the only access to the bay. Engulfed in majestic, straight-trunked trees soaring upwards for twenty metres or more with giant ferns forming an understorey that was both exotic and homely he considered everything that had happened in the two years, almost to the day, since he had been released from the shackles of his previous lives.

Ilian's core group of personnel had been both friendly and accepting on his first day and continued to be so whenever he was in Canberra. He maintained the Spartan, single-bedroom flat in the national capital that he had purchased almost as soon as he had arrived and had spent the following year in, rarely escaping the city between his debriefing after Capricorn Downs, fitting into the new work environment and the protracted, but vitally necessary, efforts he was putting in with the psychologists and counsellors to unravel, deal with and leave behind his past. The last was ongoing and would be for some time but now, at least, was considerably less intense. Helped by these morning swims, as close as he could get to meditation, he was even managing to sleep through the night without being woken by nightmares most of the time these days and the last time he had been able to say that was before Dakar.

Out of sight of the ocean by now he turned off the main track onto a barely visible footpath through the bush that was his personal short-cut to what he now thought of as his spiritual home. It was a short but steep climb up the side of the sandstone headland but it suited him, being an effective deterrent to most wandering sticky-beaks from the beach. Any who persisted didn't make it to the house anyway, coming up short against the two metre high fence that ran the entire length of the perimeter of his twenty hectare piece of paradise. Putting his thumb to the detector his gate unlocked and he passed swiftly through it, allowing it to clang shut on his heels as he continued up the last few metres to the crest of the ridge and into view of the house.

Even before he had left the remote cattle station at the southern end of Cape York for the last time he had been considering finding a bolt-hole somewhere that allowed him the same feeling of space, silence and connection to the environment. Canberra most certainly wasn't that: it might feel strangely empty a lot of the time but it was, nonetheless, a city, albeit a small one, and offered little real escape when he really needed it. After his first few weeks there he had been starting to want to escape his temporary lodgings, provided by ASIO, so had finally sat down and consolidated his finances.

Ignoring the Chinese blood money that was steadily accumulating interest in Switzerland he found that he had far more in the kitty than he had thought. Eight years of pay from his period of incarceration in Russia had barely been touched and his frugal living for the two years after his return had added to the account, an account he had emptied in the form of a bank cheque the afternoon of his escape and taken to establish a new one on his arrival in Luxembourg. Some of that had been eroded while he had been wandering half the world in the months after he had slipped out of the UK but once he had started working for Hamet Fasli he had left that account where it was safe and opened yet another one, in the Cayman Islands this time and had lived off that until he had consigned Jonah West to oblivion and welcomed Nathan Tolmie into the light. After untangling the international web of banking he had set up he had looked at the total in his new Singaporean account, translated it into local money and realised just how lucrative his time with his old prison friend had been.

The upshot of that was that he had found and purchased his small flat – little more than a studio apartment not far from work – reasonably quickly but that hadn't slaked his desire for isolation. He had been talking to Ilian about it one Friday afternoon over a quiet post-work drink in a pub near the court where Megan, Ilian's wife, was still in session and she had suggested he get out of the Territory and look over the border in New South Wales, either in the mountains or on the coast. Not having yet explored much of this part of the country he spent that weekend ranging from the Southern Highlands to the north-east of Canberra as far down as the small towns of the Snowy Mountains to the south-west. Although there were places of beauty that caught his eye it was also leading into winter at this point and the bitter cold of the southerly wind was a reminder of a life he was trying to leave behind.

Several weeks passed before he had a chance to get out again and this time he took the road over the highlands to the coast. Glimpses of the sea between green hills reminded him briefly of the end of the long drive to Cairns from Capricorn Downs and hit him with an ache of longing that surprised him. He hadn't cared one way or the other about that city – too many people after the intense isolation of the cattle station – so the ache wasn't for that. He knew, perfectly well, that it was for the isolation instead. That was the point when he realised there was no earthly use in him looking for a home in any size of settlement. His favourite log by the billabong came to mind, telling him what he really needed: his own patch of the bush. The entire focus of his search had changed and ultimately led, a few months later, to where he was now.

The house had been built as a weekender by a city businessman who had gone bust and Lucas had picked it up in the subsequent fire-sale of his assets. It appeared to be little more than a tin shack from the back, the view that greeted him at the end of the long driveway that wound through his patch of thick coastal forest. From the front it was revealed to be a little more and at this time of the morning it was looking at its best.

Clad in corrugated iron it consisted of a simple floor plan: a glass-fronted central open living area flanked by longer modules containing the main bedroom suite in one wing and a couple of smaller guest rooms in the other. Between the two wings a broad timbered and roofed deck extended the living area outside and provided a frame to the view that had captivated him the first time he had seen it. Set on the high point of the block on a cleared half-hectare on the escarpment, all he could see was ocean, trees and the northern end of the beach. Walking up the couple of steps to the deck he could see the view reflected in the glass and as always it made him smile.

Turning to face the real thing he slung his towel onto a chair and extricated himself from the wet-suit, hanging it over the deck railing so he could rinse it off later. The sandals were kicked off at the door and he padded over the polished timber floor to the refrigerator to get a drink. On the kitchen bench top his phone was flashing; returning to it with drink in hand he swiped a finger over the screen to see a missed call and a text message from his part-time boss.

"Hi Nate. Give me a call when you get this. Ta."

It didn't sound urgent so he'd leave it until after he had showered and had breakfast. That was a good half-hour later, when he took a cup of coffee and the phone out on the deck, settled into his sun lounge and thumbed the speed dial. She answered on the first ring.

"Hey, Nate. Thanks for calling back so quickly."

"Good morning, boss. You're at work early."

She groaned and Lucas could just about see her leaning back in her seat and stretching, cat-like, before answering.

"Mmm, trying to get everything up to date before I go on holidays on Friday."

"Poor you." Lucas was grinning but his voice was unsympathetic.

"Watch it, boyo, or you'll be in trouble."

"So you keep promising but I've yet to enjoy it."

Their relationship had advanced in leaps and bounds since their first meeting in Cairns and as he had slowly come to terms with and then left behind his past. He admired her bone-dry sense of humour, irony and appreciation of the finer points of satire; she saw the same qualities in him and, once she was certain that he was serious in his new life, had encouraged their return and a cautious friendship had developed that had since grown into a relaxed mateship which allowed them to swap such banter. A gurgle from the other end told him that she was trying not to laugh too loud so he took a mouthful of drink and waited for her to get her breath back.

"In your dreams, Tolmie, in your dreams. Anyway, pleasant though this is it's not why I called and I've got a meeting in ten minutes. Were you coming over this week?"

"Thursday, to see the doc." He had appointments with a couple of his therapists and needed to go in to work to see the training department about an update to the curriculum for the next intake of greenhorns who were currently going through the selection process. It had been a surprise how much he enjoyed the training, from the greenhorns to the very advanced counter-interrogation and torture survival techniques he delivered to very small groups at both ASIO and ASIS. The latter had been his own idea and it had taken some considerable persuasion by him, supported by his psychologist, to get it past Ilian and the DG but it had proven very successful and had done him good, actively facing some particular demons and then turning them into something beneficial.

"Can you make it tomorrow? I've got something to run past you."

A kookaburra started laughing hysterically somewhere in the canopy of the trees, one of its friends chiming in from further away.

"I can make it today if you like. It's only a couple of hours drive." After the multitude of day-long trips between the cattle station and Cairns he now thought little of any trip that was under four hours. Ilian's voice brightened.

"Could you? After lunch?"

"Okay. See you then."

He dropped the phone on the coffee table and swallowed more of his drink, eyes roaming across the view before settling on a container ship that was just visible on the horizon. He hadn't had anything planned for the next couple of days anyway so he might as well go back to work. Having long-since given up trying to second guess his mercurial employer – she was every bit as opaque as Harry had ever been when it came to work – he didn't bother wondering what it was about. He'd find out soon enough.

 **09:30-06:15 Siding Bay NSW –Canberra, Australian Capital Territory**

Tidying everything away so the place could be locked up for a few days meant Lucas didn't hit the road until after nine. Influenced as much by his experiences working for Hamet as by his time on the cattle station he had invested in a slightly second-hand, innocuous, white four-wheel drive Toyota Hilux utility which chewed up the kilometres very effectively as well as climbing up and over the escarpment without effort, as though it was barely there. Not entirely fuel-efficient it _was_ completely reliable and he knew the make lived up to its reputation of being almost unbreakable so this morning he had no hesitation in giving the machine a cursory once-over before getting in and setting off on a 200km trip.

Today, once he was through the small town at the river mouth that was his nearest point of civilisation (ironically named Bateman's Bay: he had left the area until last on his search but having immediately fallen in love with his block decided that the town's name would be a salutary reminder of the reality of his past, like a slave whispering reminders of mortality in Caesar's ear), he settled back into his seat, put the cruise-control on and proceeded to drive almost on automatic pilot as he let his mind wander to the approaching festive season.

The day itself he would spend on his own, as usual, although he was unsure as to whether it would be on the coast or in town; Boxing Day he would spend lunch and part of the afternoon at Ilian and Meg's, who had a few other guests attending as well. Two of those guests would be Harry and Ruth, who were escaping their tropical mountain fastness for a holiday for the first time in three years and had been persuaded to drop in on the way through. Even more amazingly, he had managed to talk them into visiting him on the coast a few weeks later, after new year, when they would be following the coast road all the way back home.

Their contact had been sporadic and semi formal to start with, in the wake of Capricorn Downs, but had slowly grown warmer over the succeeding months and years. The relationship could never return to what it was, he accepted that now, because everything had irrevocably changed but it could develop into something new instead and that was what his focus had been. They had only met in person once in the past two years, when the couple had appeared, anonymously, in closed session, to give their evidence during the trial of Agustina Soraya Shinwari and Hamzah Rashid, after which they had gone out for a quiet dinner, ironically to a small Indonesian restaurant. That had gone better than anyone had expected and had given him the impetus to extend an invitation to visit this time, once he had found out that they were coming down his way. It would be up to them whether they stayed with him or not; he would be happy either way.

By this stage the ribbon of tar had wound its way through the forest and topped the high point of the Great Dividing Range. The Western Downs had opened up before him, the bush being slowly replaced by fields with scattered farm buildings in the valleys and, now he was leaving the last of the hills, the first town he had seen since departing the coast coming into view ahead of him. He didn't stop today, being less than an hour away and intent on making the city in time to restock his refrigerator before going to the meeting.

Once through town and on the last leg of the trip Lucas couldn't help his thoughts turning towards the more immediate future and what his favourite redhead might have up her elegant sleeve for him. Presumably it was either urgent or important, or maybe both, otherwise she wouldn't be asking him to come over, and clearly it needed to happen over the next few weeks while she was away. A sudden tickle at the back of his mind filled him with uncertainty tinged with a little dread and what might be anxiety. _Surely she couldn't be thinking of sending him out in the field?_ Not yet, he wasn't ready for that. Maybe would never be ready again.

Despite all the advancement he had made with the help of his therapists, he still slept badly sometimes and bouts of depression occasionally dogged his days. The latter had, surprisingly, served to draw Harry and him together more over the past year. After their dinner together in Sydney following the court appearance the three of them had gone for a walk down by the beach. The evening was warm and they were all feeling relaxed and mellow so conversation flowed freely and ranged widely although no-one was interested in discussing anything but the immediate past. Ruth had spotted a _gelataria_ in a group of shops and had dragged the two men over with her to pick up some dessert; ten minutes later they were seated around a table trying to catch the drips from what was left of their cones when Ruth had turned those luminous, translucent eyes of hers on him and asked,

"How are you, Nathan? Really."

There was genuine warmth in her voice and he found himself answering honestly.

"Better than I was but that's a given when you consider what the only other option was. There is still a way to go, though: apparently I have depression, dating back to the events of my childhood. That's going to be a long term battle but you know what? It's been an enormous relief just to know. It explains a lot and in a strange way gives me an anchor point from which to work."

He hadn't missed the quick look she had flicked at Harry but hadn't thought anything of it at the time. They had continued talking about it for a little while, or he and Ruth had: the older man hadn't said much at all although he had been listening, and watching with lambent amber eyes. So it had been something of a surprise when, a couple of months later, he had made a rare, impromptu phone call to his former boss in response to the latter's most recent, scarily prescient published article and they had ended up discussing his illness. It had taken a few more such phone calls for Lucas to confirm his suspicion that Harry had been stalked by the same black dog for almost as long as Lucas had been alive. Knowing that had been a huge help for Lucas and, although he would rather swallow a brick than ever admit it, had also been beneficial for Harry and had served to break down a lot of the remaining walls between the two.

An awareness that the traffic was increasing brought him back to the present as he realised that he was in the outskirts of Queanbeyan with Canberra spreading out around its lake in the hazy distance. It was time to stop day-dreaming and start concentrating before he ended up lost in the endless maze of interlocking rings that was the capital's road network.

By one thirty Lucas had been in his cubicle for almost an hour, had caught up with a few work associates, his phone messages and was working through the last of his emails when his phone chirped and Ilian popped up on the video screen when he answered.

"Sorry I'm late. We seem to have a particularly obtuse bunch of politicians at the moment, honestly." She grimaced and he realised she looked exhausted. It had been a long year in more ways than one for her so it was no wonder she was desperately looking forward to her break. "Can you come up now? The main meeting room."

"Okay."

Taking one more glance at the view from the large glazed window next to his desk – triple-laminated and both bullet and bomb-proof – he stood and made his way through the rabbit-warren to the lifts. He wasn't based on the active counter-espionage floor but the next level down, for which he was grateful. He still needed the quiet to function and although he always felt the pull of adrenaline on the main floor it also tended to stir up his anxiety so he wasn't entirely comfortable there. Nonetheless, due to his regular interactions with the First Assistant Director General (Ilian's ridiculous mouthful of a title) and her entire crew, he had a pass for the main floor that also took him through the secure airlocks into the live area and he utilised it now. Both main and live were busy but not frantically so; he waved a greeting to those who hailed him as he passed but kept going towards the meeting rooms.

Ilian was already there when he walked in, as were Ruby and Tori. There was no sign of Wisnu but Lucas hadn't expected to see him, knowing the other man was kicking around Darwin somewhere on assignment. Instead there was an older woman, probably Harry's vintage, seated at the far side of the table with a slim document folder in front of her. He greeted the familiar trio and Ruby introduced him to the stranger.

"Nathan, this is Lorraine Curtis. She runs the desk in Sydney but has come down to brief us on what's going on."

 _Now why did that sound ominous?_ he thought as they shook hands and checked each other out. Lorraine was short, probably not much more than five feet in the old measure, with pale blue-grey eyes, fair skin that had seen too much sun and iron-grey hair cut in a short, practical but stylish bob. Her voice and demeanour were practical and no-nonsense as well and she reminded Lucas irresistibly of his mother's mother, the one whose surname he now bore and whom he had absolutely adored. Lorraine saw the quick glint of humour in the man's very blue eyes as they exchanged pleasantries and wondered what it was about but whatever it was it didn't matter: at least it was humour and not anything else but in any case they had more important things to get through right now. In her broad outback drawl she said,

"Pleased to meet you, Nathan. Now, if we're all here, we might as well get into it."

Everyone made themselves comfortable as Ilian dimmed the lights from the console on the table and Lorraine fired up the smart screen. Unlike the light-filled working areas the meeting rooms had no windows; instead, the opaque glass panels at the end of each room were fully functional touch-screen computers linked into the intranet. As she spoke Lorraine's hands moved like a conductor across the screens, bringing up photos, films and information summaries.

Over the following fifteen minutes she painted a picture which was depressingly familiar: chatter had emerged over the past few months which suggested that a disparate group of outsiders, social misfits and the disenfranchised were falling under the spell of a Somali immigrant and self-styled Imam going by the name of Dahir Barre Samatar who had started out preaching piety and rapidly escalated through fundamentalism to violent extremism. He had lost a few followers but gathered more to replace them and it was the recent change to the open support of _jihad_ and ISIS _,_ both abroad and more specifically at home that had finally brought him to the serious attention of the security services.

Based in Auburn he had arrived in the country six years before _via_ Yemen, Pakistan and on a leaky boat to Christmas Island from Indonesia as an illegal immigrant, eventually being released into society two years after that. In Yemen he had found a wife, the extremely devout Qirfa Alsoswa who had completed the journey with him and was now a mother of a toddler girl and a newborn boy.

Since arriving in Sydney they had gathered a third member of their inner sanctum, Jahan Mahdi Bolzaar, the son of Iranian immigrants who had fled Tehran late in 1979 after the Iranian revolution and subsequent crackdown imposed by the Ayatollah Khomeini. Born three years later, their son had grown up entirely in Perth where his largely secular parents were employed as university lecturers and had led a normal life until he left home to attend university in Melbourne where he had joined an Islamic student group, becoming more devout over the following months. The events of 9/11 had divided the group, with the majority reviling the act but a small number of the students, including Bolzaar, embraced the al-Qaeda fundamentalist manifesto.

Moving north in search of work, he had settled in a dingy room in a run-down house in the backstreets of Punchbowl; within weeks he had landed a job doing the accounts for a small Halal supermarket and, through the internet and word-of-mouth, joined Samatar at his exclusive worship meetings.

The group had stayed off the radar until earlier in the year when Samatar's increasingly incendiary exhortations, on line and in person, to his followers to join the global _jihad_ and then bring their 'skills' home had escalated from a local to a national threat level for the security services. As a result of the increased surveillance some evidence had come to light that Samatar and his wife were not only actively recruiting for the cause but were assisting would-be _jihadists_ to travel to Syria to gain experience. Evidence, but not quite enough actual proof.

There was one final issue. Far from being the persecuted student that he had proclaimed, it was looking more and more likely that he was actually a member of Al-Shabaab who had fought in the Second Battle of Mogadishu in mid 2006, experienced defeat at the fall of that city in December of the same year and was probably present at the capture of Baidoa in January 2009, just prior to his departure to Yemen, and was now using his old network to facilitate the movement of personnel to Syria and money to both Somalia and Yemen. Again there was no concrete evidence but the circumstantial case was gaining more solidity by the day.

The room was silent when Lorraine finished, everyone digesting the summary. Ilian, who had already heard it, allowed them a minute or so to cogitate in the dimness before she turned the lights up again and looked around. Ruby was also aware of the salient facts and was looking uneasy for reasons that would be revealed soon enough but both Tori and Lucas were clearly still processing the information, the former with dawning apprehension and the latter with puzzlement.

This was the first time that Lucas had been on a briefing since his disastrous exit from the Grid and he was battling with conflicting emotional responses: interest, mystification, excitement, anxiety and even mild claustrophobia – he was immensely relieved with Ilian brought the lights up again – battled for dominance as his mind went over everything again at lightning speed. He could see where things were headed: they would be wanting to get someone inside the group somehow but he couldn't for the life of him understand why he was here or why it had been so urgent.

As though she had been reading his mind Ilian took over the talking.

"The reason we're all here is because the chatter has escalated over the past couple of weeks and we've had some support from surveillance strongly suggesting that the group are planning something big some time over the festive season. We're still not sure what or exactly when – it could be any time from Christmas Eve to Australia Day – so we need to get someone inside and that, Nathan, is where you come in."

She hated to drop it on him like that but everything had moved so quickly over the past 48 hours that she didn't have any choice. Wondering what his reaction would be she kept a close, blue-green gaze on him as she spoke. As she expected there was no surface reaction but she thought she caught a flicker of uncertainty in his bright blue eyes. All he said, though, was a cautious,

"How so?"

She smiled suddenly,

"Don't worry, I'm not going to chuck you back in the field quite yet. We've got something else for you to do instead." The response was silence as the man battled to control his skittering thoughts and feelings. Ilian let him have the moment before she expanded on her statement. "We have someone ready and able to be inserted into the situation but he has a request that we are inclined to grant if _you_ are agreeable. He would like you to be his handler."

 _That was unusual_. _Didn't the man already have a handler?_

"Who?" It wasn't a demand, more genuine mystification. "Who is this asset and why does he want me? How does he even know about me?"

The answer shocked him.

"Because he's already worked with you." The man's brow creased, making him look more saturnine as he struggled to work out what she was saying. Eventually Ruby spoke quietly.

"It's Brendan, Nate. He has volunteered to go into this group as an observer, like he was at Capricorn Downs, and we've agreed but on the condition that he has someone very experienced to back him up. I can't do it – not allowed, as we're family – but he asked for you, anyway."

"He knows and trusts you, Nathan, and in any case I'd rather have an experienced hawk protecting our fledgling than a lesser bird. If not you then it will have to be Wisnu but he's already got two or three other things on the go that are taking up all his time. You won't be on your own: Lorraine will be there to back you both up."

After Ruby's surprise announcement Lucas barely heard Ilian's words. He had kept in intermittent touch with the lad ever since their time on the cattle station but had thought him safely at university; the news that he was about to be thrown into the lion's den again had both shaken and disturbed him. Brendan had done a brilliant job two years ago, above and beyond anything that had ever been expected of him but the thought of him going into the situation as described filled the older man with dread. He was also still not an official member of the Service which had the potential to leave him a little more vulnerable despite the presence of his Aunt at such a high level within the Organisation.

"It is his choice, if that's what you're worried about."

Ruby's words hit the nail right on the head. Brendan was competent, more than competent, he was well aware of that but he wasn't anywhere near ready to do what he wanted so desperately to do: return to the field as a fully trained agent rather than just an asset and it had occurred to him to wonder if the young man's enthusiasm had been exploited. Lucas was well aware of how manipulation in the services worked… She was still speaking.

"He had heard rumours of what was going on through friends of a friend at university and brought the subject up when he was down here for a visit one weekend. That was a huge surprise because we'd not long beforehand escalated surveillance on the group. He volunteered to keep an ear out but I gave him strict orders to not go anywhere near it." Her sudden smile was brilliant. "True to form, he didn't listen to me! Unsurprisingly, next thing you know his name crops up on a list, albeit as someone regularly accessing the social media sites rather than actually attending any meetings, and Lorraine starts asking rather pointed questions!"

"Well what did you expect when the nephew of the 2IC at head office pops up as a prolific user of a possible extremist cell web-site?" Lorraine's reply was tart but there was a smile lurking in her pale blue eyes. "You really need to train the boy better."

"The little bugger was giving me cheek in his own inimitable way, you mean," was Ruby's response, her tone of voice quite clear in its resignation. Knowing the young man in question Lucas had some fellow feeling with Ruby and suddenly relaxed. No-one was manipulating anyone into anything. Except perhaps for himself. He sighed, seeing the inevitable rolling towards him like an unstoppable steam train and prepared to capitulate, feeling surprisingly relieved.

"What was that, Nathan?" Ilian twinkled at him, one eyebrow elegantly arched.

"Okay, I see your point. I'll do it." Her twinkle turned into a grin; Ruby visibly relaxed, knowing her nephew would be in safe hands; and Lorraine just nodded once, firmly. "When do we all meet?"


	2. Chapter 2

**2\. 05/12/2014**

 **19:30-21:45 Lidcombe, Sydney**

Friday prayers were over and the small congregation were standing around drinking mint tea or iced rosewater, nibbling on dates and _baklava_ and talking amongst themselves in the anonymous, slightly run-down hall where they met in the outskirts of Lidcombe. This was the third time Brendan had attended the public gathering of Samatar's followers and on each occasion the rhetoric had ramped up until the man was preaching death and destruction and the audience was lapping it up. He was quite a performer, Brendan was willing to admit that, but the message, and the congregation's response to it, chilled the young man to the core. However, he did have some niggling doubts.

He might only be just twenty but his time living on Capricorn Downs had familiarised him with genuine, if psychopathic, believers; there was something about Dahir Samatar and his side-kick, the Iranian Jahan Bolzaar, that didn't quite ring true on that front. He couldn't pin it down at this stage but he suspected the pair weren't in it for the glory of Allah but more for the power for themselves. He was due to catch up with Uncle Joe tomorrow so it would be handy to discuss the gut feeling with him.

After chatting to a small group of old and new recruits – a mixed bag consisting of a Palestinian refugee, a Pakistani immigrant, and Anglo- and indigenous Australian converts – Brendan excused himself to get a top up of his tea. By this stage in proceedings the women were permitted to enter the meeting room to serve the refreshments and talk, in a limited way, to the attendees and at the moment Samatar's wife, Qirfa, was there on her own. He covertly watched her watching him approach through the slits in her _niqab_ , her gaze strangely intent, and smiled shyly, dropping his own attention to the floor.

"May I have another tea, please?"

"Certainly." Her voice was low, musical and only lightly accented but she was still watching him with that unnerving intensity as she poured the drink and added sugar; too much for Brendan's taste but he drank it without demur each time it was presented to him.

"You are Cyril, aren't you?" Qirfa Alsoswa would watch and listen to the members of the congregation both during the prayer sessions, from the screened women's area, or afterwards and had a talent for spotting the most impressionable, and therefore malleable, of them to be drawn into the inner circle. The aboriginal boy had caught her eye early: he was quiet but asked intelligent questions which indicated both a true interest in learning about the religion as well as what appeared to be a passionate hatred of those he considered to be the invaders of his country and an equally passionate desire to do something about it. He was the sort of candidate who was ideal for what they were planning. She noted his shy, surprised glance upwards at her words and smiled behind the veil: it was so easy to turn these young boys with a few feminine wiles.

Brendan was thinking along similar lines. _It was so easy to dupe these people by playing up to their expectations…_ The surprise was genuine enough, though: he hadn't expected to draw their attention quite so quickly and was quietly gratified. His acting ability was clearly better than he had thought it was, especially as he actively despised the likes of this group. He hadn't liked them two years ago and his opinion hadn't changed since.

"Yes, Miss."

Her laugh was as musical as her voice.

"Please, call me Qirfa. We are a little more relaxed, even modern, here than some other groups are." _Only because it was a good way to draw in the likes of this youngster_. Alsoswa hated doing it because it went completely against all of her beliefs but her desire to achieve their objective overrode her personal objections. His eyes widened again for a moment and he produced another shy smile. "What are you doing now, Cyril?"

Brendan took a sip of his tea and took a careful, slow breath to control his suddenly racing heart. _Surely it couldn't be coming so soon?_ He allowed some puzzlement to register on his face.

"Now? I will be going home to study for a little while and then sleep. I have a job coming up after the new year at our summer school and have a lot of work to do to prepare for it."

That fitted with what she expected. She had already done some research on him and had found him enrolled on a scholarship at Sydney University, studying at the Department of Government and International Relations.

"It is good to see you following the obligation of our faith to improve yourself! Would you be able to stay for a little longer, tonight, though? It is not yet late and we would like to invite you to the smaller group we have for more serious studies."

She could have sworn on the Koran that the boy blushed with pleasure as he stuttered an agreement. He was a good looking lad, she decided, with his fine, dark skin, warm and soft chocolate eyes and flashing smile and was, of course, intelligent with it. He would be an excellent addition to their little team.

The blush was as real as the earlier surprise had been but again was not for the reasons the woman was assuming. It was because it looked like he _was_ being drawn into the inner sanctum, long before he thought he would, and his heart wasn't only racing but he was suddenly shot through with both fear and anticipation. They had been hoping for more warning so he could be wired up but that wasn't going to happen, not tonight. All he was going to be able to do was take internal notes and report back tomorrow. He didn't think they would be going into much detail on the first meeting anyway.

That assumption proved to be entirely correct. Qirfa had caught the eye of the Iranian, Bolzaar, after Brendan had agreed to stay back and the man had shepherded him to a discrete group who were loosely gathered at the back of the room. One of them was the other indigenous man he had been speaking to earlier, Cameron Sales Wanuwangul, along with another Somali (Idil Waris Feysal), an Egyptian (Omar Hadad) and an English convert with a huge red beard, pale green eyes and a slightly incongruous Cockney accent going by the adopted name of Mustafa Abdul-Rahman. The rest of the congregation slowly trickled out and within twenty minutes it was just Brendan with Samatar, Alsoswa, Bolzaar, the other four and Bolzaar's very young wife, Parvana Khorasani. To Brendan's great surprise, Qirfa Alsoswa had disappeared into the back room with the cups and plates and had returned some minutes later with not only Khorasani but her own two young children, Noor, who was about four, and Mohammed, who was barely toddling. The youngsters had been so quiet Brendan had had no idea they were there.

The subsequent meeting had not lasted long. He had been introduced to the group and _vice versa_ and the conversation had been very skilfully turned towards Brendan, or more correctly Cyril, and his passions. He knew what was happening and went with it, feeling like something of a traitor to his, Brendan's, true beliefs and understanding of the world as he did so. Not wanting to over-egg it at this stage he managed to quietly confirm for Samatar Cyril's deep, visceral hatred of the events of the previous 226 years, how much he despised everything Western and desperately wanted to strike a blow against its rotten-ness without saying it so obviously. He was nervous to start with but once he had started and saw that everything he said was pleasing to the audience his nerves diminished and he rode the surge of adrenaline until the attention moved from him and back to Samatar.

The meeting wound up shortly afterwards with Brendan/Cyril invited to another private meeting the following week. Three other recruits accompanied him to the railway station with both Hadad and Abdul-Rahman then heading west to Auburn while Wanuwangul was, like Brendan, going the other direction, returning home to Redfern, so they caught the same train and continued to talk. Brendan kept quiet, encouraging the other and was quietly chilled at what he recognised as genuine _jihadi_ fervour fed by a view of history that was as twisted as that of any whitefella redneck denialist.

The more he listened to people like this the more Brendan quietly thanked his mother, aunt and grandparents, including his Irish grandfather, for teaching him and his siblings to view history with a detached, clear-eyed, questioning view. From a personal point of view there was much to not like about history and he had certainly had his moments as a child and young teenager when he was an anti-whitefella firebrand but by now, a decade later, he knew perfectly well that every person on the planet could justifiably claim victimhood if they so desired, for a vast expanse of reasons. He was also well aware that there was no point in judging the actions of the past by the mores of the present: history couldn't be changed, all you could do was not let it weigh you down but try to do your best to ensure that the bad things never happened again while the good things expanded to fill the gap. Acts of hatred and terrorism like his fellow passenger was espousing were never going to achieve that and in any case he had always wondered if the 'good old days' were really as crash-hot as anyone thought they were. All he was learning at uni suggested that they probably weren't more often than they were.

He was intensely glad when Strathfield station rattled into view after a fairly short ride and thankfully bade his companion farewell. By the time he got home to his small studio apartment he was feeling flat and flopped into his second-hand recliner with a beer to consider the events of the night. _That was something else he should probably give up for the duration – alcohol._ It wouldn't do for a new Muslim convert to be sprung smelling of booze. Uncle Joe had warned him about the adrenaline surges and their aftermath that he was likely to experience during the course of the operation and given him some hints on handling them but he hadn't expected the feelings to be so powerful. Not even Capricorn Downs had been the same; there, he had been completely under the radar until the finish and when that had arrived it had all happened so quickly that he hadn't had time to be nervous, not even in the final confrontation with Hamzah Rashid. Now he understood the importance of having a handler and would be very happy to catch up with him tomorrow.

 **06/12/2014**

 **09:15-10:55 University of Sydney, Camperdown**

Mid-morning on a Saturday at the end of the academic year meant that the campus was fairly quiet as Lucas loped through the grounds towards his meeting with Brendan. The young man had sent him a text last evening saying he was okay but hadn't rung and Lucas had subsequently spent an unsettled night, chased by echoes of old phantasms from the darkness of his own history. The first rays of dawn had been a relief and he had taken himself off to Coogee Beach to join the other early-morning surfers and swimmers for a session in the waves. There was no mob of friendly kangaroos here but the view was still stunning and the people, what few of them there were, were polite and unobtrusive.

Although low rise multi-story buildings clung to the low hills behind him, in front of him was only the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, moving with a gentle swell this morning, while off to the left were the honey coloured sandstone rock cliffs that were typical of all the bays in this part of the world where the swell crashed into milky sea-foam with almost monotonous regularity. He could see why the people of this city loved their coastline but he preferred his own little stretch, further south, where there were far fewer people.

These ocean swims were one of his major lifelines: originally starting out in a local Olympic-sized public pool in Canberra early in his treatment, suggested by one of his therapists, he had quickly got into the habit of doing a couple of kilometres every morning, finding it akin to meditation; once he had moved to the coast he had exchanged the pool for ocean swimming and really found himself in his element, literally as well as metaphorically, and now it didn't feel right if he didn't get a chance to hit the water.

Afterwards he had washed the salt and sand off and got changed back into jeans and a tee-shirt at the public showers and change rooms before heading to the nearest café for a breakfast of strong coffee and scrambled eggs on toast. Another change in this new skin he was in: gone were the breakfasts of old, consisting of sugar, fat, carbs and caffeine – when he had eaten at all – replaced by healthier alternatives that he had developed quite a taste for. The eggs this morning were particularly good: organic, perfectly scrambled with small pieces of feta mixed through, topped with a few fresh spinach leaves and served on thick sourdough, he was half tempted to go back for more. Hazel, his yoga-teaching, slightly alternative physiotherapist girlfriend of sorts, would have been seriously impressed. In fact, next time they were here together he would bring her here. Ros, on the other hand, would have never believed it…

The thought of his old senior officer, sparring partner and friend brought a familiar pang of pain along with an equally familiar wistfulness. After his return this previously unknown woman had become his rock, albeit a spiky one, before either of them had fully realised it but he had always felt that he had not quite been able to return the favour when she had needed it, despite his best efforts. Jo's death had hit her hard, far harder than she had ever let on, even to him, although it had been obvious to all that she was slowly going down-hill, and he had felt increasingly powerless to help her or do anything about it. Then, after her sacrifice, he had started his own descent, slowly at first until Vaughn bloody Edwards had turned up and given him a sharp nudge into a death-spin that had proven irrecoverable.

He shook his head to clear the cobwebs that were threatening to trap him again. That was the past: he had lived through it for real once and on numerous occasions since but it was time to put it back where it belonged and get on with the present, which included meeting up with his protégée later in the morning. Rising to his feet he walked to the counter, paid the bill, ordered a second espresso to take away and left a few minutes later to go in search of his car. The sun was out and warming quickly but the breeze was still cool and as he moved along the footpath with the sparkling waters of the bay over the road on his right, beyond the green of the park, he thanked the cosmos that he had survived to start again, here on the far side of their small blue marble, in a place that had ended up being perfect for his needs: accepted as yet another immigrant and so nothing out of the ordinary and in a climate and geography that was almost as far removed from both Britain and Russia as he could get. He even had a safe link to the past in the form of Harry and Ruth, although God knew that, of everything, was the thing that he deserved least of all.

The trip back to his small serviced apartment, half way between the beach and the university, passed smoothly, allowing him time to change from the baggy, slightly torn tee-shirt to something more suitable for a university lecturer, run a comb through his hair and pick up his laptop backpack. His role in this operation wasn't, for once, entirely a fiction. Dr Miles Greenhalgh, originally from the University of Salford in Manchester and now a senior presenter at the post-graduate summer school on international counter-terrorism, was actually a semi-regular persona that Lucas took on as part of his training role with ASIO and ASIS, when he was representing those organisations without wanting to be identified. He also did genuinely lecture at specialist courses such as this, although this would be the first time that Brendan would be present. As a result he was now familiar with this campus, along with a couple of others, and the regular staff had got to know him so he slotted in quietly and efficiently these days. A couple of the staff had already headed off overseas on their own study jaunts so he had scored a small office from which to work, giving him a much more solid aura which would be important for the next few weeks. It the threat extended much beyond Australia Day he would be in trouble but they would worry about that if and when it happened. He had a feeling it wasn't going to be an issue.

As he suspected there was no-body much around in the department when he got there, only one of the more conscientious doctoral students quietly beavering away in her small, shared office. He was early for his meeting with Brendan so took the opportunity to plug into the network and catch up on some personal emails as well as doing a bit of work on his summer school presentations before packing it in an hour or so later and heading out. They weren't meeting on campus as such but at a café nearby that was a bit of a hangout for students and staff alike outside of hours. Ambient world music – somewhere from North Africa, by the sounds of it – formed a slightly exotic background to the normal café sounds as he walked in, winding his way through the trendily mis-matched furniture and scatter rugs which broke up the coldness of the polished concrete floor. Modernist artwork decorated the walls and quirky little sculptures adorned each of the slightly battered tables, adding a bohemian atmosphere. Having surreptitiously checked the few other patrons already there, Lucas found himself a table and settled himself in to wait.

Uncle Joe was sitting at a table at off to the side near the entrance, back to the wall, bright blue eyes scanning the surroundings as they always did, when Brendan arrived. He had noticed the scanning during every meeting since this operation had begun and he was quite convinced that the man had no idea that he was doing it. However, it was something he had also caught himself doing more and more often of late. Aunty Ruby and Ilian had told him quite bluntly to stay vigilant; the meetings with Uncle Joe had only reinforced that and now, after last night's events, he understood why.

Joining the man at the table with a quiet greeting, they exchanged small talk until the waitress had been to take their order. After that the discussion turned to the previous night. Initially Brendan gave Lucas a run-down on the earlier, open meeting; following the hiatus caused by the return of the waitress with their morning tea Brendan took a sip of his flat white, looked up to catch Lucas' eye and said simply,

"I'm in."

It was so quiet that Lucas wasn't sure he'd heard right; the intensity in the dark, velvety eyes – reminding him in a freakish flash of Harry – convinced him otherwise.

"Already? You are sure?"

"Yes. I was invited to a private meeting after the public one. Nothing specific was said about what they are planning but they were checking me out. There's another meeting on next Tuesday."

"Who else was in the second meeting?"

"Samatar. Jahan Bolzaar. Both of their wives. Another Somali called Idil Feysal. Omar Hadad, who I think is originally from Egypt. There is an Englishman who's calling himself Mustafa Abdul-Rahman – don't know his original name but he's a red head with pale green eyes and a beard that would put Ned Kelly to shame – and a Redfern boy, Cameron Sales Wanuwangul. The last two are the most vocally extremist; they walked back to the station with me and Wanuwangal joined me on the train." A _moue_ of distaste crossed his face as he tore a piece from his salted caramel muffin and slathered it with butter. "He's not my idea of someone I want to listen to for long." Swallowing the bit of muffin he added, "You might want to look into Qirfa Alsoswa. She's the one who initially approached me to join the group. A couple of the others said later on that she had done the same thing to them."

Lucas was impressed. The lad had been a quiet achiever at Capricorn Downs and it looked like he was going ahead in leaps and bounds. _Although he wasn't exactly a lad any more_ , he reflected, taking a piece of his own _pain chocolat_ along with his drink, a good, strong, sweet tea this time. He hadn't seen Brendan for several months when they had met up a few weeks back and he had been surprised at the physical change in him. Although he had been fit enough on the cattle station he had lost a lot of it during his first year of study and so had taken up boxing earlier this year and the effort was now well and truly showing up in his physique. Lucas was no slouch himself in that department, having worked hard since his redemption to recover something approaching the levels he had maintained while working on the Grid, but he recognised the younger man was now probably ahead of him. Which was all to the good: he may well need it if this operation turned bad. And on top of that he had grown a beard to suit his new-convert fervour! Fixing his protégée with his crystalline blue gaze he said,

"Good work. Very, very good work. What time is the meeting on Tuesday?"

"Early. 6.30."

"Come to the office at half-five. We'll get you kitted out and have someone out the front monitoring things. I can be there if you want but won't be visible, it's too risky."

"Okay. I'd like that, if you could. First time doing this and all that." Brendan gave a small smile but there was something in his face that made the older man narrow his eyes slightly.

"Are you alright, Brendan?"

That was something else Pearson was discovering about his chosen handler: the man was a mind-reader or had x-ray vision or something. It was impossible to hide anything from him! Still, he'd been doing the job for as long as Brendan had been alive so he'd want to be good… He sighed.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just a bit nervous."

The unnerving blueness didn't waver.

"That's understandable. And not a bad thing as long as it's keeping you on your toes and not crippling you with fear. There's something else."

 _Christ!_

"Alright." He took a deep breath. "I'm having difficulty listening to these people. They hate us, everything we stand for, so deeply that it's almost primordial but I don't understand why. They've all come here willingly, have received the benefits of the West yet they want to destroy it all and you know what? I don't even think it's because they believe in the religion; I think it's because they love the violence and whatever power they think it's going to give them. And you should see and hear them when the meetings end up with viewing of the latest footage from various IS websites. It makes me sick."

 _The kid was good. Better than good, he was a natural and would make a damned good field agent._ As long as he got through this one without too much damage.

"That's what it always comes down to, Brendan. Power, or the perception of it and there are some people who will do anything, use any excuse, to get it. For the ones who choose to attempt it illegally we are the ones who get to stop them, who get the opportunity to reduce the body count." His companion nodded and seemed to relax. "Are you sure you're good to continue with this? You can back out any time you like."

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. It's just learning how to deal with all the shit these people spout."

The rare, brilliant smile transformed the older man's face for a moment.

"And _that's_ why you've got me! How's our friend Cyril taking it?"

Brendan grinned back.

"Oh, loving it. In his element, in fact, can't wait to get on with it."

"I bet he is!" The smile faded a little. "Just make sure you keep yourself and him separate. For the protection of both of you. You understand what I mean?"

A nod answered the question.

"I do. I've got a couple of outfits for him that I take out when I need him: putting the right shirt on and picking up that wallet makes all the difference!"

Brendan watched the face opposite him become more serious and a wry, almost wistful, expression flickered momentarily.

"You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago – a friend from before my time in Russia. He used to do something similar, have certain things that represented his legends, all meticulously kept together in their own boxes. I used to tease him about it – I work completely on the fly and always have – but it used to work for him. At least until it didn't…"

"What happened to him?" Brendan knew that Uncle Joe had lost people – co-workers, friends and more – through the job but didn't know any details; his life before Capricorn Downs was rarely mentioned to anyone.

"Nothing bad, as far as I know. He left the Service in one piece and went into business for himself, very successfully I believe." He suddenly smiled. "I bet he's still got his boxes!"

They laughed and the conversation turned back to generalities for the next few minutes while they finished their refreshments. Lucas paid the bill while Brendan moved out onto the footpath and found himself checking everything in sight although there was nothing suspicious to see.

"All good?"

"Yeah."

"Very well. I'm going back down the coast now but I'll be back late tomorrow night. Don't hesitate to ring me if you need to."

"I will but I shouldn't need to. Thanks, Miles. Have a good weekend."

"You, too, Cyril. See you on Monday."

They shook hands and parted company, Lucas impressed by his young protégée's professionalism and Brendan buoyed by the support he had received and feeling more positive about what he was taking on. He was looking forward to finding out exactly what the group was planning.


	3. Chapter 3

**3\. 15/11/2014**

 **06:45. Undara Lava Tubes, Undara, Queensland**

Around 1,900 kilometres north of Sydney as the crow flies, well past the Tropic of Capricorn, the sun was barely up as Ruth's eyelids fluttered open and she let her gaze roam around their small bedroom. Warm, varnished timber lined all the walls and the ceiling was white and curvaceous; large windows with shuttered blinds formed half the walls on either side while directly above the bed-head – old fashioned, horse-hair stuffed leather seat backs – a metal mesh overhead rack stretched the width of the old seat. The windows were partially opened behind the blinds and a fan mounted above them gently stirred the cool morning air. The small, neat en-suite, also furnished in vintage railway fittings, was behind the thin partition wall which behind the bedhead. All in all, she thought, the owners of the place had done an excellent job in converting the old railway carriages into comfortable accommodation.

They had only left home yesterday morning, saying a reluctant goodbye to Catherine and Aron, who had quietly arrived from their current base in Singapore a fortnight ago and were staying on the farm to look after the livestock for another few days, when they would be catching a flight from Cairns direct to New Zealand to spend the holidays with Aron's family. The previous year the young couple had spent a quiet few days over the season with Harry and Ruth, including visits to the coast for barbecues on the beach and lazy afternoons lolling in the lap pool stretching between the two now-completed wings of the building, falling in love with the house and the property in the process so they were more than happy to take up the invitation to baby-sit the place while the owners took a long-overdue break. After they left Ray and Marie would keep an eye on things for a few days before their own son, Paul, newly divorced and looking for somewhere to lick his wounds, would take over until Harry and Ruth finally returned in early February.

This had been first stop on the road trip, only about two hours away by road but feeling like a different planet. Long gone was the green lushness of the coastal rainforest, replaced by bone-dry paddocks almost denuded of vegetation and sparse, scrappy eucalypts clinging to the rocky ground. Drought had been gripping the inland in its parched, strangling grip for years and recent rains had done little or nothing to help. There was a flush of green on the verges and the occasional muddy puddle in the bottom of dams but that was about it. The difference was a major shock to the system.

They had arrived at Undara in time for a quick lunch at the on-site cafe and then joined an afternoon tour of the giant lava tubes, glad for an escape from the heat. It was even more of a surprise when they found the largest one was knee-deep in water that they would have to wade through. Others on the tour had hesitated but not Harry, who was taking his boots off without a second thought; Ruth shrugged internally and, despite the knowledge that the water and the handrail on the submerged walkway would be sprinkled with bat guano, sat next to him and did the same thing. The water was deliciously cool; the vast expanse of the basalt chamber like a cathedral and they had enjoyed it immensely, re-emerging with such wide grins that the couple of tourists who had declined to get their feet wet immediately regretted their decision.

Today they would be heading further south-west, intending to spend the night at the historic gold mining town of Charters Towers, but it was only a few hours away so they weren't in any hurry to get going. Some birds were warbling outside and the sky was still a pale, cool blue through the window of the old carriage; smiling to herself, she rolled over and wrapped her arm around her husband, tickling the back of his neck and down his spine to between his shoulder blades with light kisses before working her way back up again.

Harry had woken up before his wife but was enjoying the early morning silence when Ruth made her move. He enjoyed the sensation for a little while before deciding to admit he was awake by taking her hand, kissing the palm and rolling over to draw her into his embrace.

"Good morning, wife."

"Good morning, husband."

They kissed for a while, leisurely; running his hand through her silky locks as she settled in next to him for a cuddle, he asked,

"Ready for day two of our walkabout?"

"Uhuh. Although we're going to have to start making them longer if we're going to make Canberra by Christmas!"

"Worry-wort. We will be, as of tomorrow, and then you might regret what you're wishing for!" He squeezed her and added, "It's looking like a lovely day out there, Fruit. Let's just enjoy ourselves in the full knowledge that everything is under control and nothing is likely to go wrong to mar our peace and quiet…"

 **07:50. Brendan's flat, Newtown, Sydney.**

Sitting on his second-hand lounge Brendan was chewing on the last of his breakfast – vegemite on toast, washed down with strong tea – while absently watching one of the morning television news programs and contemplating the day ahead. Ten days before Christmas there wasn't much more to do in preparation for the summer school, which wasn't due to start until early January, but he was going into the university anyway in order to catch up with Uncle Joe for a debrief. They had seen little of each other since the session where the older man had fitted him with his wire and showed him the ins and outs of it, although it had been comforting for Brendan to know that his mentor had decided to be part of the team in the surveillance van. That had been the only time he had worn the wire thus far; a technical crew had been sent into the tatty hall the next day to fit bugs anywhere and everywhere they could, removing the opportunity for accidental discovery of the wire by any of the other members of the group.

So far little of real depth had been uncovered. Samatar talked fire and brimstone very effectively and was good at revving the others up; Jahan Bolzaar was the organiser, along with Abdul-Rahman but they still didn't have a fixed plan in place. They had originally been going to target Christmas Day but couldn't decide what to do, where and when and had now run out of time; instead, they were now considering either New Year's Eve or Australia Day, with Wanuwangul pushing for the latter so they could strike a blow both for Islam and for the indigenous people of this country. Both Brendan and Lucas were starting to wonder if anything was going to come of the group or not. Most of they time they were inclined to the latter but there was enough uncertainty to keep Brendan involved, particularly as it looked like Wanuwangul's plan was starting to gain traction. Personally, Brendan was damned if he could see how two wrongs (historic dispossession and marginalisation combined with modern mass murder) would ever make any sort of right but he kept his objections to himself and played along.

In some ways he felt sorry for the other man: unlike himself, Cameron Sales was a local and had grown up in the inner city and so had no real connection to his own culture or Country, having only a weak echo of what should have been there that was coloured by the worst aspects of western culture along with a grasp of the depth and breadth of the west that was as shallow as his hold on his own history. Brendan, on the other hand, was indelibly connected to Country, Language and culture and was developing an ever deeper understanding of and connection to the history and cultures of the West through his education and experience. Once more, he was grateful to both his extended family and to the wider society which was giving him the opportunities to become a global citizen who was firmly grounded in his own history. Others, such as the other members of this small would-be terrorist cell, were not so lucky.

Noting the time on the television screen he got up, walked into his small kitchenette and rinsed his dishes (automatically checking out the street visible directly outside his windows), left them to drain and picked up his backpack from the bed as he passed on his way to his front door. Once out on the nondescript street where his building and others were tagged with second-rate graffiti he jogged towards the railway station through the warm morning air; he didn't want to miss the train and be late because he had things to do later. Aunty Ruby and her family were hosting him for Christmas and he needed to go present shopping!

 **08:33. Martin Place, Sydney.**

The man had been walking around the top end of the steep, paved plaza for the last half an hour or so, ignoring and being ignored by the morning crowds on their way to work. Dressed in a black jacket, camouflage pants, a baseball cap and carrying a black backpack and a large plastic bag that looked strangely rigid, he had initially approached the glass-walled building containing the studios of one of the major television broadcasters, from inside which the same morning show that Brendan had been half-watching earlier on was going live to air. There was visible security around the doors of the building so he thought better of things and walked off; now, he had made up his mind. Opposite the television studio was a coffee shop on the ground floor of a granite-clad building; looking at the large, plate glass windows he decided this place would do and so, without further delay, walked through the glass doors and into the Lindt Café.

 **10:00. A café near Sydney University**

Lucas and Brendan had finished both their debrief and what was left of the work needed for the summer school and had left Miles' office to head to a nearby coffee shop, one of several they utilised in random patterns for their meetings, for a pre-Christmas coffee and cake. They were talking about their plans for Christmas as they walked in and threaded their way through an eclectic mix of tables and chairs that were decorated, along with the walls, the benches and every other conceivable spot, with a random collection of images and models of roosters, chickens and cows. It was bright and cheerful and served some of the best home made slices and cakes around so the thoughts of the two men turned to what they were going to order, not even registering the flashing images on a silenced television screen off to one side of the room.

Their order in, Brendan looked around for a table while Lucas settled the bill; there were only a couple free at this hour and one was near a group of yummy-mummies with prams half the size of the average SUV that contained, almost to a one, a fretting baby which was mostly being ignored by its parent. The other was in a small alcove directly opposite the television and it was that one to which Brendan lead his companion. It was a table for two and the younger man sat with his back to the screen, leaving Lucas with the one opposite.

They had barely sat down when the flashing yellow banner at the bottom of the screen caught Lucas' eye as did the images coming through live on the screen and he went pale, blue eyes sharp and glittering. Brendan frowned.

"What?"

"Do you know anything about this?" Both voice and expression were grim, the Englishman's face suddenly transformed into a hawk carved from granite and, just for a moment, Brendan felt fear. _What had this man been through to look like that?_ Twisting around in his seat and craning his neck to look up the younger man didn't understand what he was seeing at first: heavily armed, black clad, helmeted men were spilling from equally heavily armoured vehicles in a near deserted plaza, only a few police officers visible in the background, while the banner was reporting a siege in the Lindt Café at Martin Place was now believed to be a terrorist attack, possibly related to Islamic State. The situation was still unclear but it was believed that there were only one or two terrorists inside along with almost twenty hostages. Footage from a few minutes beforehand was shown, revealing a terrified woman holding up a black flag with Arabic writing on it; Brendan tried to make out was it was saying while at the same time protesting,

"No! This is nothing to do with Samatar's crew and I've heard no rumours of anything else happening. And there is something wrong with that flag – I don't think it's actually the IS one—"

His phone rang at the same time as Lucas' and they answered as one.

"Aunty…"

" _Ilian…"_

"I'm safe, I'm with Uncle Joe…"

" _It's okay, he's with me…"_

"I don't know anything about this, it's not my group…"

" _No, he knows nothing. Not his little cell and he's heard absolutely nothing of it…"_

"I will."

" _Hmm. Alright, I'll talk to him about it…Thanks."_

By the time they finished their calls the waiter was putting their coffees and cakes in front of them. Lucas scrubbed at his face as he brought his adrenaline surge under control while Brendan looked slightly shaken.

"I presume you got the message. About keeping your ear to the ground?" The lad just nodded. "They haven't identified who it is yet, although they've got direct feeds from several cameras staring into the café, courtesy of some quick thinking from one of the cameramen inside Channel 7. Whomever it is he's claiming that he's acting on behalf of Islamic State and that he has a bomb, with another three In Martin Place, Circular Quay and George Street. The police are investigating. Ilian is firing on all twelve cylinders, powered by jet fuel!"

The last comment achieved its objective and elicited a smile from the younger man, although his eyes were still haunted.

"So's Aunty Ruby! I don't think I've ever heard her so hyped up in my life!" They grinned at each other before Brendan shuffled his seat around the corner of the table so he could watch more comfortably and attacked his baked cheesecake with panache before staring back up at the screen. "I'm still not sure that's an IS flag: it's the _al-Shahada_ declaration but the format is completely wrong."

"It's more like what is used by _Hizb ut-Tahrir_ ," Lucas agreed, squinting at the image, "but the general public won't know the difference so it will achieve its purpose to stir up fear. It looks like it's working, judging by the wall-to-wall coverage on this channel and, no doubt, every other one. And the bastard is definitely terrorising his hostages."

Their smiles faded as once again footage was screened showing a clearly traumatised woman, her face a picture of misery, holding up the black and white flag in one of the windows. This was what Lucas really hated and Brendan was learning to hate: the indiscriminate coercion of innocents in a phoney, bloody mock-war that was merely an excuse for the exercise of barbarity and in the name of arguments and gods in which the innocents had no particular interest.

They continued watching quietly for another ten minutes until Cyril's phone rang. Brendan looked at the caller ID and raised an eyebrow at his companion before swiping the screen.

"Yo, bro', watcha doin'?"

Lucas couldn't repress a sparkle in his eyes as he listened to Cyril talking, he guessed, to one of his fellow cell members in a vastly exaggerated, somewhat sing-song version of his real accent. It sounded like the other person was extremely excited, some of his words audible to Lucas, and Cyril was agreeing enthusiastically. Eventually the call was terminated and Brendan dropped the phone back into his pocket, his expression both thoughtful and concerned.

"That was Cameron. He's with Hadad, avidly watching all this. They think it's great and are now feeling even more inspired to wage _jihad_ on behalf of the Prophet. Or get their 15 seconds of fame, more likely." He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment before giving Lucas a deep, clear, focussed gaze. " _Damn_ whoever this bastard is for encouraging these loonies. I will find out what they're planning and we _will_ stop them." Throwing back the last of his drink he stood, followed by Lucas, and held out a hand. "Thanks, Miles, but I'd better get going. Catch you later."

They shook.

"Stay in touch, Cyril. You know where I am if you need me."

They left, separately, Lucas just in time to see his young protégée turn the corner, making for the bus stop. He was getting more impressed by Brendan every day; it was a pity they didn't get more recruits like him. With nothing more to do the Englishman walked away in the opposite direction to go back to his car. _Might as well go home and watch what was unfolding._ It was a pity that Harry was on the road and incommunicado somewhere, he wouldn't have minded giving him a call…

 **10:52. ASIO Headquarters, Canberra.**

In the dim light of the war room Ilian, Ruby, Tori and Nevil, their senior techie, were clustered together, with Lorraine and her team patched in from the Sydney office on one of the smart screens while the constant live feed direct from the Channel 7 cameras were on another and all the major news channels, television, radio and print, were being streamed to the other screens across the end wall. Teams of analysts were trawling through data from the last few weeks, trying to identify who the perpetrator – it seemed to only be one – was, so far fruitlessly; on the ground in Sydney intelligence officers were squeezing their assets for every drop of potential information, again mostly to no avail.

Ilian was almost constantly on a video link with the head of the Tactical Response Group and the New South Wales Police Commissioner, and Ruby was intercepting and fending off calls from politicians while talking to a contact inside the sister organisation, ASIS. Meanwhile, Tori and Nev were trawling through the cream of what the analysts were coming up with while simultaneously monitoring the camera and some sound feeds. Everyone was frustrated; whatever this was, this seemed to be happening not only with no warning but with no traces, either. And Ilian for one didn't believe that, there was always a footprint. Somewhere.

Glancing up at the live camera feed she stilled, instantly, and her glance intensified.

"Nev. Back up the last few seconds of feed and clean it up as much as you can."

There was a tone in her voice that made everyone else in the room stop what they were doing and look from her to the screen and back again. Everyone except Nev. He knew that tone and was grabbing the footage as she spoke. A couple of minutes later he had done what he could with the time available and projected it up on one of the main screens, kicking the digital print media off to a smaller one on the side. The grainy image had been cleared up enough to show a bearded man in a bandanna behind one of the hostages in a window; Ilian's sudden hiss was snake-like and as venomous before she threw the document in her hand onto the desk with a snap.

"You _bastard_." Everyone turned to look at her again but she was still staring at the screen. "What the hell is he even doing still out of prison? The last I heard he was up on charges of accessory to murder and multiple sexual assaults and I was hoping they'd lock him up." She noted some of the uncomprehending expressions and suddenly roared, "Take another look! It's fucking _Monis_. Jesus Christ…"

It was hard to tell what was winning, fury or anguish, as she came to terms with the spectre of her worst nightmare rearing up in front of her. Man Haron Monis, or Mohammed-Hassan Manteghi Borujerdi, the self-styled Sheikh and religious leader, had been an increasingly painful thorn in the security service's side over the years as he had become more and more radical and increasingly violent along with it. The Islamic community didn't have to disown him because they had never acknowledged him in the first place, recognising him as a fake and a trouble-maker almost from the start and his ongoing, indeed worsening, criminal behaviour and unpredictable aggression had reinforced their desire to distance themselves from him as far as possible. Ilian had been after him for the better part of the last decade, convinced he was far more dangerous than many gave him credit to be; now, it looked like her fears had become fact.

 **12:05. Charters Towers, Queensland.**

After the better part of four hours' driving they were both looking forward to finally arriving in the old gold mining centre, finding somewhere for lunch and then a motel for the night, having only broken the trip for a quick coffee at the roadhouse at the former nickel mining town of Greenvale. It had been a long, sobering trip in many ways; hundreds of kilometres of nothing much except old basalt flows and scrappy bush, the scrub getting sparser and drier as they headed west then south and the few cattle left in the overgrazed paddocks getting thinner and thinner. As they got closer to the small city – a large country town, really – what little grass there was faded from khaki to pale brown to grey and the skeleton of the earth increasingly poked its bony frame through the thinning skin of bleached dirt. They had thought it had been dry up around Undara but that had only been the start of it…

The only 'highlight' of the trip, if it could be called that, had been the challenge of dicing with death in the form of the fifty metre long, double or triple deck, triple trailer road trains that were both an icon and notorious feature of outback roads. It was bad enough when the road consisted of two lanes of tar, even though they were generally rough with crumbling shoulders consisting of dirt and gravel, but dealing with the oncoming monsters on the many sections of road that consisted of only a single ribbon of tar down the centre was another thing altogether. Lucas, when he had found out their planned route, had given them some tips for just those circumstances, gleaned from his endless days of driving between Capricorn Downs and Cairns; Ruth, when she was driving, had taken the option of getting right out of the way and stopping until the behemoth had passed, spraying rocks and gravel in its wake; Harry, braver (or, possibly, crazier) elected to (mostly) take the other option, of slowing down a little but still driving on the dirt shoulder until the vehicle was gone. That worked okay when the other vehicle was another car or four-wheel drive but was distinctly more hair-raising when it was a colossal cattle truck that did indeed resemble a train far more than what it actually was.

As if the machines' reputation wasn't enough, they had seen proof of their power soon after leaving Undara. Travelling through an area of high, rocky hills with no fences, they had noted the cattle on both sides of the road, chewing on the slightly more abundant tufts of slightly less dry grass that grew just off the tar; rounding a corner they came across the evidence of what happened when one of those fleshy beasts, big enough themselves, took on the larger, metallic one. Initially unable to quite recognise what they were looking at, they slowed down to begin weaving their way through the obstacles and suddenly realised what those obstacles were. A haunch here; a hoof there, scattered puddles of blackened, dried blood but it was the head, staring morosely at them from it's position in the middle of the road, that almost did for them as they recognised they were driving through an exploded cow. There had been one or two other intact carcasses elsewhere but only one thing could have been responsible for this horror: some time earlier in the day, probably before dawn, a cattle truck moving at its full speed of 100kmh had cleaned up the unfortunate black steer. It was unlikely that the driver had even seen it until the last second and by then would have had no way of avoiding the collision; the machines could weigh up to 200 tonnes, fully laden, and even when empty weren't far off 100 tonnes so travelling at that speed and pulling that weight he would have had no choice but to go straight through. After that, the pair in the small Subaru were more than happy to keep right out of the way.

Now, slightly frazzled by dealing with the harsh road conditions, they were heading gently downhill past the green of the cemetery into the outskirts of town. Wondering what was going on in the world Ruth leaned forward and stabbed the power button on the radio, followed swiftly by the scan button to find a station. Ignoring the first two – raucous music and ads respectively – she settled on the third, which seemed to be news. What they heard a few seconds later made their blood run cold as the announcer detailed what was happening in the centre of Sydney, with mentions of bombs, guns, hostages and Islamic State. Glancing at each other, they both had the same thought.

 _Ilian would be tearing her hair out…_

 **16/12/2014 02:14**

A sudden gust of breeze sent an empty paper bag skittering noisily down the empty expanse of Martin Place. Some of the black-clad, helmeted and heavily armed men twitched at the sound, nerves keyed to breaking point after the past sixteen hours. Groups of hostages had managed to escape, here and there, but with unknown consequences for those remaining inside; the bomb threat had turned out to be a lie; the shock-jocks had been on their radio and television shows, whipping up unnecessary hysteria while the armchair experts were already criticising what they thought they were seeing; at least one shot had been fired inside and, as the hours wore on and on, everyone's nerves were stretching to breaking point.

In a studio apartment in Newtown and an architect-designed house on a headland well to the south two men were doing the same thing: sitting up in the dark with a television flickering in front of them, sound turned down, watching the live feed from various cameras stationed at the security perimeter cordon some distance from the café. Brendan had had a long day fielding phone calls from the over-excited members of the cell who regarded themselves as his friend; eventually his phone had obligingly rescued him by going flat and he had let it stay that way, keen for a bit of peace. Nothing much had happened for a while and he was hoping it stayed that way; in fact, he was hoping that it would all fizzle out, preferably without bloodshed and with the man – they knew there was only one – being dragged out in handcuffs, a failure. At least that might hose down the over-enthusiasm being stirred in the others.

At Siding Bay Lucas was also up, watching the glowing images on his large flat-screen. He hadn't even tried to sleep and was silently glad that Hazel had stayed in the city for a few more days, otherwise he would have been keeping her awake – again – with his insomniac tossing and turning as he wondered what was going on both in Martin Place and in the office in Canberra, as well as reliving any number of moments from his past life on the Grid. So far this country had mostly avoided terrorist acts within its shores but he had a horrible feeling that state of grace was about to change.

In Charters Towers Harry and Ruth were in the comfortable bed of their motel room. Ruth was finally asleep, breathing quietly, but Harry was still wide awake, lying on his back watching shadowed headlights occasionally ghost across the ceiling. Like Lucas, he was deeply unsettled by the events and for the same reason. He couldn't remember how many times he had seen exactly this sort of situation explode beyond what anyone would have predicted, with tragic consequences. Granted, it was almost as likely that the whole thing would end as quietly as it had begun but his instincts told him not this time. He just hoped that the unfortunate steer earlier in the day hadn't been a portent of what was to come. Sighing, he told himself yet again that it wasn't his problem, rolled onto his side, wrapped an arm around his wife and closed his eyes. If he tried, he might get to sleep tonight. There was nothing else he could do. It wasn't his job any more.

The light in the room in Canberra was muted but brighter than in the Towers, Newtown or over on the coast. The teams had been working flat out all day going through everything they could find to see if there had been any warning signs that Monis was planning this or that Islamic State had anything whatsoever to do with it, so far without success. It appeared he had attempted to join one of the more notorious bikie gangs recently but they had declined the opportunity because he was too weird for them ( _that said a lot_ , _when a bunch of hardened criminals thought you were strange,_ had been Ilian's dry comment at that news) and someone had uncovered a letter that the man had sent to the Attorney General a few months beforehand, basically asking if it was illegal for him to contact ISIS directly but with no come-back from they themselves (that one had caused her to blow her stack – it was the first time she had heard of it and wanted to know how the _hell_ that had happened) but nothing else.

Now, it was past two in the morning and she had padded, bare-foot, back into the nerve centre where she was standing clutching yet another espresso and watching the media feeds. The lonely plaza with its black shadows was empty and chill and the café itself appeared dark; she was wondering exactly what was happening in there when a gun-shot rang out, followed almost immediately by a cacophony of flash grenades, shouting and automatic rifle fire. Lightning lit up the windows of the café as everyone in the nerve centre stopped what they were doing and stared in frozen horror at the screens. Ilian's heart plummeted to her feet and her gut contracted as she watched her worst dreams come true. After all her years of fighting it, international terrorism had finally arrived in their remote outpost of what passed for civilisation and she hadn't been able to stop it.

Bali 2002 notwithstanding, this country had just lost its innocence and nothing would ever be quite the same again.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: A big thank you to everyone who is reading and reviewing. This chapter has been split into two as the original was too long to put up as a whole. The second half will go up some time over the next few days so apologies for the slightly abrupt end to this part!**

 **4A. 26/12/2014**

 _ **12:45 Canberra**_

Harry guided the Subaru to a stop under a large tree which he judged would provide them with shade for the rest of the day, although at the moment there was only enough of that blessed, cooling darkness to cover half the vehicle. They had worked out early on in their new life in this country the attraction of strategically placed trees, buildings, even trucks for lowering the inside temperature of a vehicle from blast furnace to kitchen oven and now it was second nature to dive for whatever was available. As they extracted a bag of goodies for their hosts and a second bag full of swimming gear and changes of clothes from the back seat a white Toyota Hilux pulled in behind them and they glanced up to see Lucas grinning back at them from behind the wheel.

Their greeting was brief but heart-felt. The past, although not expunged, had retreated far enough that its own shade now barely reached them. There was now little left of their recent awkwardness so they could leave their cars to bake and cross the road towards Ilian's house as a friendly group. Perched part-way up a hillside with views over the lake the building was, on approach from the street, a minimalist white architect-designed glass-fronted box that tumbled down the slope to the rear of the plot. Surprisingly, there was no apparent security but Lucas explained the reality as they approached the front door, also glass and located up three steps and under a portico supported by gleaming black columns. It looked like a fairly normal house for the neighbourhood but all the glass was both bullet and bomb-proof, the walls that blocked off access to the rest of the property were actually electrified, the yard was crawling with artfully concealed CCTV and the house had a direct link to the nearest police station as well as the monitoring centre at work. Harry lifted an eyebrow and murmured,

"That's more than I ever had."

Lucas glanced at him and responded with a twinkle in his crystalline blue eyes,

"You weren't living with one of the senior criminal judges in the country!"

"True…"

The younger man bounded up the steps towards the door only to have it swing open and a disembodied voice that sounded like Ilian float out from within,

"It's about time you mob got here. We were starting to wonder if anyone was going to show!"

The door closed automatically behind them so they moved in the direction of the sound and found her in the spacious living area, pouring icy champagne over fresh strawberries in Swedish glass flutes for them. As tall and elegant as ever, even with her hair pulled up in an untidy ponytail, no makeup, bare feet and dressed in a light cotton ankle-length dress that was startlingly reminiscent of San Francisco, 1968, she greeted them all expansively and shepherded them towards seats and the spread of goodies on the coffee table.

"Hazel couldn't make it, Nate?"

"No, she sends her apologies but she'd already organised to take her daughter up to her mother's place in Newcastle this year – Willow is starting uni up there in February."

Harry and Ruth glanced at each other – this was the first they'd heard of any children attached to Lucas' partner – but Ilian waved a hand airily as she flopped into her chair.

"Never mind. There's always next time and it means that when the other pair get here soon we won't have to worry about any accidental slip-ups when we're all catching up."

"Where is Megan, anyway?" Harry asked, savouring a sip of the wine. "I've been hearing about her for almost twenty five years, it's about time we met."

Ilian grinned.

"Heaving into view as we speak!"

A woman about the same age as her moved quietly into the room as she finished, bearing a pre-lunch platter of hot-out-of-the-oven sourdough slathered in herb and parmesan butter. About Ruth's height but rather more curvaceous, her silver hair was cut in a shoulder length bob under which were large, almond shaped brown eyes and a generous mouth, currently sporting bright red lipstick which accentuated her olive skin, all of which spoke directly of her Syrian ancestry.

"' _Heaving'_? What am I, a tea clipper?" was her dry response, delivered in a rich, melodious voice which in turn spoke of her judicial majesty. Ilian was unrepentant.

"Well, you have been known to be three sheets to the wind on occasions!"

Meg snorted but it was softened by the smile in her eyes as she chose to ignore the provocation.

"I know Nathan but when you've finished insulting me you can introduce me to our other guests."

She put the platter down and pointedly gazed at her wife, who just grinned at her for a moment before hauling herself to her feet to do the honours.

"Meg, this is Iona and Laurence Stafford. Iona, Laurence, this is my wife, Megan Tamuza."

Formal greetings over she dived into the bread and settled back in her seat, nibbling happily, as everyone else also sat back down and the conversation began to flow. They were well into it, on their second drinks and the bread mostly demolished, fifteen minutes later when the doorbell rang. On her way back out to the kitchen to get the next round of nibbles and check the oven Meg said,

"Can you get that, love, I've got to get the meat out before it burns," leaving Ilian to unwind herself from her chair and head for the front door, pressing the remote for the lock on the way. The English trio continued talking quietly about nothing much until steps and voices indicated the newcomers were entering the large room. Ilian's voice and two others: a man with a deep baritone and a woman with a contralto as honeyed as Ilian's own but with a more indeterminate accent. Harry stopped speaking mid-word and lifted his head, eyes sharp and slightly disbelieving; Ruth and Lucas glanced quizzically at each other as Ilian announced,

"Here they are! Laurence, I've got an old friend of yours here."

Lucas watched, fascinated, as the expression of puzzlement on Harry's face changed to surprise and then delight as he got up and turned to face the new arrivals but it was even more fascinating watching the woman. Not quite Ilian's height but not far below it and a few years older, she had long, dark hair streaked with silver that was pulled up in a neat bun, with sea-green eyes and a quiet, slightly sideways smile that lit up her face. Dressed in loose, sage green linen trousers with a crisp white shirt her smile had also faded to puzzlement at Ilian's words but when Harry stood up and turned around her face went as white as her shirt for a moment, accentuating the colour of her eyes, and she swayed on her feet momentarily, the giant man with her solicitously putting his arm around her shoulders. Glancing from Harry to Ilian and back again the newcomer's colour returned to normal as she narrowed her eyes, cast a slightly accusatory glance at her hostess and then moved forward, eyeing Harry up and down with a measuring gaze.

"You're looking remarkably chipper for someone who's supposed to have been dead for the past three and a half years."

"Hello, Hope!" Harry joined her and they exchanged a kiss on each cheek. Hope sniffed very deliberately before adding,

"You don't smell like you're a zombie, either!"

"Yes, apologies for the confusion but we didn't have any choice but to die."

"Obviously." Hope turned her attention towards Ruth. "I presume this is the new bride who supposedly went up in flames with you when the car went off a Welsh mountain side in a storm? Are you going to introduce yourselves so we know to whom we are speaking?"

"Allow me," Ilian stepped forward graciously, immensely enjoying herself at this reunion. "Hope, Wynne, please meet Laurence Stafford, his wife Iona, and a mutual friend and co-worker Nathan Tolmie. Folks, this is Hope Johnson and Wynne Sharrug. Hope and Laurence have known each other for even longer than he and I have."

Everyone shook hands and quietly measured each other up as they resumed their seats. Ruth watched Hope closely, wondering, as she always did, about what might have been in Harry's past but she was no longer jealous. Observing the other woman and her man, she noticed the little things that indicated a pair who were totally devoted to each other and clearly had been for some considerable time; Hope also had a quietly subversive sense of humour that tickled her own and she suspected that they could end up personal friends, as she had (albeit at a physical distance) with Ilian.

Lucas and Harry came to a similar conclusion about Wynne. Lucas rarely had to look up at anyone – Ray Williams was probably the last time that had happened – but he did with this man, who topped him by at least five centimetres and, like Ray, was also significantly heavier built, with muscles on muscles. Quiet, with pepper and salt hair that had a habit of flopping over his forehead and a hard, almost bony face that would suddenly change to that of a shy boy when he smiled, as the afternoon wore on it revealed he had an air of competence that rivalled Harry's so Lucas suspected a military background. Harry knew it, immediately, just as he recognised a fellow senior military intelligence operative as soon as he met one. What he found interesting, apart from the fact that he had only been dimly aware that Hope had got married around the turn of the millennium, was the way the man moved. Only in his mid fifties and fearsomely fit, he nonetheless moved with a subtle but noticeable carefulness that spoke of old and probably serious injuries. _War wounds or something else?_ He would be interested to find out eventually.

The man himself spoke as they all made themselves comfortable and Ilian topped up their glasses. Looking from Hope to Harry and then to Ilian he asked in his soft, deep voice, cornflower blue eyes curious,

"Is someone going to explain? Or is it classified?"

At that point Meg returned, bearing more nibblies, and joined the throng with a casual,

"It's not classified in this company. Hello, you two. Settling back in okay?"

"Yes, thanks, although it's taking a while to get used to the quiet after years in Beijing."

Silence fell for a moment after Hope's response. Meg reached for an olive and said,

"Well, is someone going to tell Wynne what's going on? And me, come to think of it. I never have heard any details. If you want to talk about it, of course."

 _It was strange,_ Harry thought, even as he was running them through a selective version of the events of three years previously, _but it was starting to feel like it had all happened to someone else._ They were living a life so far removed from London and MI5 that it almost felt schizophrenic now on the increasingly rare occasions that the subject came up. Most of the time he was dispassionate about the ghosts living in his head – not so Ruth, she was still a more tender soul - but occasionally they surprised him with their capacity to inflict sharp reminders of what that time had been; this time, it had been Jim. Not named as such but mentioned as one of the toll that had been extracted in the service of RussiaFirst's overweening ambition, his voice hadn't wavered nor his face but he was unable to entirely repress the stab of pain from his eyes. Hope noticed it, and wondered; no-one else did.

Once lunch – an eclectic fare ranging from Thai warm beef salad to sherry trifle by way of gado-gado and cold roast chicken – was done everyone retired to the back yard _via_ various rooms to change, for those who needed to, and its twenty metre pool for a lazy afternoon. Conversation ebbed and flowed, coalesced and bifurcated as was its want on these occasions and covered a multitude of subjects. Early on Ilian, who for once had been obviously buzzing with some sort of news, couldn't stand it any more and announced with fond pride that Meg had been elevated to the bench of the High Court of Australia, starting in the new year. That caused celebrations all around; later, Wynne casually revealed that they had returned after over a decade in China because Hope had herself accepted a new position. As the Deputy Director General Operations and Assessments, otherwise known as Ilian's boss.

That in turn created some good-natured ribbing for a while until Ilian diverted it with a mention about the new Director General in London and how much of an arrogant prat he had been when she had needed to contact him recently. Horrified at the news when it had filtered through from Tariq to Ruth a couple of months before, the expressions that neither Harry nor Ruth could now repress, along with the curl of the lip that Lucas gave as he remembered the general dislike and contempt the man had been held in when he was head of Section X back in the nineties, naturally raised the interest of the rest of them so eventually Harry dished all the dirt he had on Oliver Mace. There was quite a lot of it, as it happened; silence fell once he had finished until Ilian eventually quirked an eyebrow and said,

"What a sleaze-bucket. I don't think I'm going to be able to keep a straight face next time after that lot! But thank you for confirming that my gut feel was right. Anyway, enough of work, it's time for a swim."

Harry, water-baby that he was, was first in, diving off the end with surprising grace and reaching the other end with a few economical strokes. Popping back up to find he was alone in the pool he stood up, still chest-deep in the sparkling blue, grinned up at everyone and asked,

"What are you waiting for? It's beautiful in here!" before a splash at the far end indicated Wynne diving in. He didn't reappear until half-way up the pool and, with his longer reach and more powerful build, reached Harry just as the latter got out of the way. He didn't stop, executing a perfect tumble turn to come up and do another length, backstroke this time. Lucas slithered in next, carefully holding his bottle of beer out of the water.

"Not swimming?"

"Not yet." He waved his beer at his former boss. "When this is done. We'll give Wynne a run for his money."

Harry glanced up to where Hope's husband was now powering back down towards them with a suspiciously professional looking action, although he noticed that there was still that hint of restraint about the movement.

"I don't know how much of a run that'll be. I think there's more to Wynne Sharrug than meets the eye…"

The man himself surfaced next to them and shook the water out of his eyes, his hair flinging droplets everywhere.

"Sorry!" He nodded at Lucas' drink. "That looks like a good idea. I'll have to go and get another one in a minute."

"You and me both. In fact—" Lucas swallowed the last of his beer and hauled himself back out "—I'll go and get them. Laurence?"

"That would be nice, thank you."

They watched him disappear into the games room towards the fridge, throwing a comment in passing at Ruth and Hope, who were still comfortably ensconced on their sun lounges. Allowing himself to slip a little further into the water, Harry said,

"You look like you've swum before."

The other man grinned, boyish.

"You could say that. When I was a teenager I was on the national swimming team, training for the Moscow Olympics. I didn't keep it up, though, not at that level: couldn't stand the culture inside the squad."

Harry threw his head back and laughed.

"Yet you ended up in the army!"

Wynne laughed with him, recognising the irony.

"Oh, it wasn't the hierarchy or being ordered about, I just didn't have the will to win. Not that way, it all got to seem a bit pointless." Something of a sly expression crossed his strong face. "I may also have been a bit of a naughty boy at training."

Harry lifted an eyebrow, an inviting twinkle in his dark eyes.

"Now _that_ sounds interesting. Do tell!"

The slyness was replaced with something close to comfortable reminiscence as the man expanded on his comment.

"I was seventeen and with the training squad in Townsville over summer. Doing well but already really didn't want to be there. So, you can work out how it went: young, fit, testosterone overload, balmy tropical evenings, lots of girls wearing not much, lots of pubs…" Harry's twinkle was broadening into a grin as the other man continued on. "Let's say I might have taken to slipping out at night to partake of the delights of the tropics. And I might have got arrested for being drunk and disorderly before they figured me out and slapped me with under-age drinking as well." The Englishman's grin was turning into a laugh by now as Wynne ploughed to a finish that was oddly triumphal. "And I _might_ have been booted off the squad as a result! I was _so_ happy because I was really bored with staring at that bloody black line for hours on end!"

When their laughing eddied back into something calmer Harry leaned towards his gigantic companion and said,

"Remind me to tell you one day about the drinking club I belonged to at university. We can compare shenanigans!"

"I'll hold you to that—"

A clinking of glass heralded the return of Lucas.

"Here we are, gentlemen." Wynne turned to grab the bottles as Lucas eased himself back into the water, revealing in the process a back thickly criss-crossed from the neck down in old scars which disappeared into the top of his board shorts. Both the Englishmen had already spotted the scars on his chest, disguised by fine, dark hair though most of them were, as well as those on his arms which suggested he had been on the receiving end of some serious unpleasantness; his back suggested even worse. Harry was about to say something but Wynne himself got in first. Clinking bottles with the other pair and taking a swig he nodded in Lucas' direction and said,

"Nice bit of Blake there. You've got some interesting ink – where'd you get it?"

He didn't miss the almost subliminal glance that passed between his companions but he waited, patiently, while they decided whether they could trust him. He knew they had clocked his souvenirs, as he had theirs, and he had already decided he could trust them, something confirmed by Hope, at least as far as Laurence was concerned. Evidently they decided in the affirmative as the man known as Nathan suddenly flashed a bright, slightly combative smile.

"Eight years in the Russian prison system. Got caught on a black op and that's how long it took _him_ —" he jerked his head towards Harry "—to get me out again, not only into a new millennium but a whole new world."

Wynne nodded, slowly.

"Thought it might be something like that. The onion domes on your back are a bit of a give-away."

"One for every year."

"At least he got you out. Not all are so fortunate."

"It didn't feel fortunate while I was in there but you're right, of course."

Harry finally spoke.

"I thought you were going to start getting rid of them?"

Lucas shrugged and held up a wrist where its former marking was now gone.

"I did. But it took forever and wasn't exactly comfortable just losing this one. There are so many people around with tattoos these days that no-one really looks and anyway they're part of me now, a salutary reminder of how quickly life can change."

"That it can. For good or bad."

The silence that fell as they all drank was a companionable one. Harry knew there was more to it than that; Wynne suspected but knew he had plenty of time to find out, being aware of plans that, according to Ilian, Nathan was not, yet. Pretty much on cue, Harry asked quietly,

"What about you, Wynne? Your back is more scar tissue than skin."

His blue eyes darkened and he grimaced at the recollection.

"Something not dis-similar. It was during the problems in East Timor in 1999. I was monitoring events with a wing of FALINTIL when a group of Indonesian Army personnel came out of nowhere. They had been tipped off where we were by someone we thought we could trust. They killed the East Timorese outright but me… they decided they would have a bit of fun with me. Fun that involved whips, chains and thin canes, among other things." His voice took on a musing tone but his words were chilling. "There are places in Asia where they beat chickens to death with canes before they cook them because they think it makes them more tender and tastier to eat. Let's just say I know how the chicken feels."

The other men were quiet for a moment, considering what had been said. Both of them had been on the receiving end of similar treatment but there was something about his comparison to the unfortunate chicken, and the appallingly senseless brutality of that act, that un-nerved them slightly.

"How did you survive?" Lucas voiced the question a fraction of a second before Harry was about to.

"I was fit but it was mostly pure luck. Xanana Gusmao himself arrived, equally out of the blue, with a small cohort of troops: he had got word that his own hideout was about to be targeted so was on the move and checking his lieutenants at the same time. They realised what was happening and took out the Indos, saving my life in the process. I don't remember any of that part of it because I was unconscious by that stage. It was only the fact that Xanana had a medic with him that I'm still here, it was touch and go for a while." He suddenly grinned. "I'm also a bloody-minded bastard when I want to be and I had not long married Hope: I wasn't about to leave her behind if I could avoid it!"

Harry smiled, reflecting on how he had felt when Sasha Gavrik had attempted to slice Ruth open.

"I can understand that. You speak as though you still know Gusmao."

The other man nodded.

"I do. We do. He is a good man and has become a friend, along with Kirsty, his wife. Hope and I met in East Timor when we were both there on black ops for our respective employers – I already knew Xanana and Hope had been working on and off with Kirsty for years, when she was still calling herself Ruby Blade and working towards independence for the country. Once I had recovered enough and after the UN moved in we both returned, officially, and spent three years working with Xanana, Jose Ramos-Horta and the government before Hope got promoted and posted to Beijing. I stayed in Dili for a year until a role came up for me in China as well."

Lucas' ears had pricked up at the mention of treachery and he asked, curious,

"What happened to the person who betrayed you? Did you ever find out who it was?"

Wynne's expression became bland, eyes opaque.

"Yes. One of Hope's assets. He disappeared for a while but was eventually found at the bottom of a ravine with a broken neck. Hope said it was an unfortunate accident."

Harry's smile was hard.

"I'm sure it was." _He would have to talk to Hope about that one day…_ Returning the subject to their earlier conversation he added an observation. "You have a little trouble because of the scar tissue? You move very carefully."

The acknowledgment came with a wry expression and a matter-of-fact explanation.

"Partly. The beating extended from my head to the soles of my feet and was so bad that there was also internal damage – I lost my spleen, among other things – and spinal injuries that it took me almost a year to start to recover from. The backbone has never been quite the same since."

"Neither has my shoulder," the older man prodded the still somewhat angry looking scar that was visible, "after one of my Section Chiefs ripped it apart with a rifle bullet. It's functional but has its limitations."

"You'll have to explain that one to me one day, before or after the discussion about the university drinking club! But yes, it's fairly obvious when you swim – your left arm struggles to get out of the water."

"All of me struggles to get out of the water on days like this!"

Up on the sun deck, in the dappled shade of a white painted pergola covered with a grape vine dangling what would be impressive bunches of fruit in a couple of months, Ruth had been practicing her Mandarin with Hope. The conversation had been limited to generalities as much because Ruth had come to the dismal conclusion, when the discussion had wandered into technicalities, that she had forgotten more of the language than she realised. When she said so, glumly, Hope laughed and responded in her perfectly pitched, accentless form of the language while watching Lucas' retreating back,

"Don't worry, you will remember. Maybe we should keep on simpler subjects, like a swimming pool full of not unattractive men!"

That topic kept them going for a few minutes as they watched said men clearly getting on splendidly as they lolled about in the glittering water, drinking beer and talking about who knew what. Meg and Ilian reappeared from inside, where they had been up to the kitchen to restock the fridge and bring out the next lot of food, including home made fruit cake, mince tarts and rum balls as well as fresh fruit and nuts. They came out to join the other women; Meg sat down with a sigh, raised her glass of wine to them and swallowed half of it in one go but Ilian was looking at the rest of her guests and frowned slightly.

"Bloody typical: the boys on one side of the room, drinking, the women on the other—"

"—Also drinking!" Hope crowed, draining her own glass. The red-head growled.

"They're looking far too cosy over there. It's about time it stopped."

Untying the halter neck of her dress she let it drop to reveal a one-piece swim-suit the same startling shade of blue-green as her eyes and then took off, running lightly and swiftly towards the pool where she launched herself off the edge and executed the perfect bomb into the centre, effectively half-drowning the men in a mini tidal wave. As soon as she surfaced a water fight erupted with much splashing, inept wrestling and shrieks of laugher ensuing.

Hope stood up, intending to join the fray; Meg just looked at them all and shook her head, announcing in her most magisterial tones,

"Don't they remind you of a bunch of kids running amok?"

Instantly, for the first time in ages, Ruth was transported back almost six years to the sunny day in her Cyprus back yard and the stone terrace around her own pool, Nico also executing a spectacular bomb that had splashed the stonework and somehow accentuated the scent of citrus in the air. A frozen moment of small delight that presaged forever in her memory the crunching of tyres on gravel and the arrival of a black car with tinted windows that signalled the end of the strange facsimile of a normal life that she had been pretending to live…

Seeing the blood drain from the English woman's face Hope caught Meg's eye, who looked totally nonplussed by the reaction, and sat back down again.

"What's up, Iona?"

"Nothing, nothing…" The voice was tremulous and the eyes stark against her pallid skin. Two gazes settled on her, both concerned, the sea-green ones somehow radiating a calm compassion that was almost Zen-like and rather irresistible.

"I – I had a step-son once, when I was living in Cyprus. It didn't end well – his father died because of me, leaving Nico an orphan – and what Meg just said reminded me of him. Of all of it. We had a small pool and the boy and his friends loved it. And they _were_ very noisy." She sighed. "He would be a teenager now, almost a young man. I hope he is alright, maybe even happy. He didn't deserve what happened to him, to his father."

"Do you want to talk about it? Or not?" Meg asked gently, aware of the other woman's distress.

"Not. Really. Something from the past came back to bite me but it got Nico's father instead. Collateral damage, as our American friends so charmingly christened it. I hadn't been part of the family for very long so the boy went back to his grandparents and I haven't been in contact since. It doesn't feel…appropriate but it doesn't stop me wondering. Or caring. You know how it is."

They did, in their own ways, Hope with more genuine experience and understanding than Meg. Silence fell for a moment before Ruth gave herself a little shake, swallowed the last of her lime and soda and stood up.

"Enough of the past. Shall we go and impose some decorum on that lot before they entirely empty the pool of water?"

Hope got back to her feet with a grin.

"Definitely! Meg?"

"Nah, not this time. I've still got half a bottle of bubbly to finish before it goes flat so off you go!"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: many thanks for reading and for all the reviews of the first half of this chapter. Here's the second, then the story will be in hiatus until the new year. Wishing everyone all the best for the festive season! AC**

 **4B. 26/12/2014**

 _ **16:45 Canberra**_

Unexpected rain with a slightly chilly wind drove them back inside less than an hour later. Everyone, fully relaxed with each other by now, mixed freely amid much laughter as the swimmers dried off and got changed again. Straggling back up stairs they decamped back to the large, airy sitting room with its cathedral ceiling and double-height, bullet-proof windows gazing out across the small, manicured front yard onto the tree-lined street beyond, and spread themselves out on the comfortable chairs. One of them was occupied by an elderly, somewhat podgy but very beautiful Russian Blue cat; Ruth, spotting the animal as soon as she walked in, made a beeline for the chair, picked the cat up and plumped herself down, putting him back on her lap and crooning at him as she scratched around his ears and under his chin.

"Oh, hello gorgeous, who are you?"

Ilian grinned as she made herself comfortable on the large leather lounge between Harry and Wynne.

" _That_ is Pusskin. He's almost fourteen, is spoiled rotten and runs the house."

"He's beautiful!"

"Well, that's Iona entertained for the rest of the afternoon," Harry murmured, _sotto voce_ , but Ruth declined to listen, focussing instead on the cat's face and thick, velvet fur. Ilian prodded Harry in the arm and said,

"Interesting article of yours the other day, Laurence. Very incisive analysis of that nut-job Monis and his ilk."

Harry inclined his head.

"I've had a lot of practice with the likes of him."

Hope looked puzzled.

"I thought you were farming these days."

"He is but you know what he's like: has to get his opinion out there so he started writing letters to the editor to the national papers," Ruth responded slightly tartly but her expression was softened by a smile. "He was too good at it and now he's got a regular syndicated column."

"Not under your own name? That would be a bit risky, wouldn't it, especially with Mace in charge over there now. Anyway I monitor such things and haven't seen you anywhere. There is someone else who _is_ very good, a Raymond Foyle… oh, that's you, isn't it?"

The man in question smiled again; Lucas, sharing the two-seater with Hope, stretched and responded,

"Got it in one!"

They talked about his articles, the events of the siege and the internal aftermath inside Ilian's organisation, which included her wanting to sack one of her analysts for their abject failure in understanding the import of everything from the letter that Monis had sent to the Attorney General some time before to the dozen or more calls they had received from the public about entries on the man's Facebook page the day before. Not only had the analyst misjudged the reports; they had also failed to inform Ilian or Ruby of their very existence. However, the person had been in the organisation a long time and had contacts so instead of Ilian achieving her aim of terminating their employment they were, much to her disgust, instead shifted sideways to somewhere where they could do no more harm. As that conversation wore itself out Meg asked,

"How are your studies going, Iona? I believe you are nearly finished your doctoral thesis on geopolitics, specialising in terrorism, if I've got that right?"

Ruth groaned.

"You have it right and I have been 'nearly finished' for months. I'll be glad when it's over, to be honest."

The slightly bitter tone of her voice surprised everyone except Harry, who knew the cause of it. Reaching out a foot to lightly rub her ankle with his toes he said,

"Don't worry, Fruit, you will never have to have anything to do with that person again soon."

A few sets of eyebrows were raised, Lucas' included.

"What happened? You were still enjoying it last time I heard, which wasn't so long ago."

"One of the external examiners is being difficult," Ruth sighed, sipping on her tea. "He wants me to rewrite part of my conclusions; I don't agree with what he wants and neither does my supervisor but I'm not being given any choice about it if I want the degree." The others looked appalled and a rustle of denial whispered through the group. "The man has absolutely no idea of what he's talking about, which doesn't help. That's been a problem on and off all the way through – people who have little to no practical experience marking your work. It's been incredibly frustrating, particularly as I can argue rings around them but then can't say where or how I know what I know!"

Ilian nodded sagely.

"Mmm, difficult to admit to years at GCHQ and in the heart of Five when you're in deep cover as a cow-cocky and that other person is supposed to be dead." She suddenly gave a shark-like smile. "Would you like me to make the man's life a misery for a while, or ruin his career or something?"

An opaline gaze met the bright aquamarine one.

"Get thee behind me, Satan…" Ruth huffed a sigh and added, "Much though I like the thought, he's actually not worth the effort."

"It could be fun," Ilian persisted, looking hopeful.

"Oh, it would be!" Harry commented, smiling expansively at the many memories he had of running similar operations. "We'll bear it in mind and let you know. Especially if he gives her any more grief…"

Pusskin stood up on Ruth's lap, stretched languidly and then jumped off to make his stately way across the floor and up the few stairs towards the kitchen. She watched him go and murmured,

"That was nice while it lasted."

"Maybe he was bored with the conversation," Lucas threw in but Meg shook her head and checked her watch.

"No, at this hour of the day he'll be heading outside for his ablutions and then looking for dinner. He's nothing if not a creature of habit."

"I'll feed him when he comes back in," Ilian yawned, elegantly. "How are your pair going, Iona? What were their names? Harry and Ruth?"

Hope gurgled in disbelief and Lucas laughed outright. The woman glanced from one half of the couple to the other.

"Seriously? Harry—" she looked at the man "—and Ruth?" Her gaze travelled to the woman, who blushed.

"Yes, okay, I regret my sense of humour sometimes. They're both fine." Her eyes slid sideways to where her husband was also enjoying the moment. "Harry's putting on weight as he's getting on—"

The man raised an eyebrow and cut in.

"And Ruth is getting crankier with approaching old-age!"

"If I'm reading the undercurrents right we'd better pull the pin on this conversation before it gets ugly," Megan interjected as Hope's and Lucas' laughter stuttered to a halt.

"Sorry, but I love it," Hope clarified, lifting her glass to her lips for a moment. "Brilliant cover for any little slips."

"It was, once or twice in the early days," Harry acknowledged, exchanging fond glances with Ruth. "We don't make slips any more because apart from the cats we've almost forgotten our old names."

"I wish I could say that," Lucas murmured, grimacing briefly. "Despite my best efforts they're all still in there, waiting to pop out at inopportune moments. One of them I don't mind but the rest…"

"Perhaps you should follow Tom's lead," Ruth suggested, equally as quietly. "Put them in boxes and file them away, even if only metaphorically."

"Perhaps," he nodded in agreement. "It would have to be metaphorical anyway, the only physical thing I have left is the ink."

"That would belong to the name you don't mind," Meg stated shrewdly. Lucas glanced at her, a little surprised she had put it together so quickly. Of course, Ilian could have mentioned something that had tipped her off but he doubted it as he knew his current boss was about as forthcoming on private matters relating to her underlings as his previous one had been. _Still, the woman wasn't a High Court judge for nothing._ He inclined his head and Wynne added,

"Despite everything that happened to him in Russia?"

"Yes. He was the best person I have ever been. The person I am still trying to be." Throwing back the last of his drink he suddenly smiled. "This has got a bit serious for Christmas. My apologies! What else is there to talk about? Have you got anything lined up to do, Wynne, or are you going to be a kept man for a while?"

"He wishes," Hope put in from her position next to him. She exchanged a glance with her husband and added, "No, we've got plans for him come February."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

Wynne pulled a face.

"You'd better. It involves you."

Lucas' face was a picture to behold as the other man's words sank in. Polite enquiry was followed by a blank incomprehension which was in turn chased away by a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. His blue gaze flickered between Wynne, Ilian, Hope and back again; Hope winked at him and said sideways to her man,

"Put him out of his misery, darling."

It turned out that Wynne was returning to his old stamping ground of military intelligence but, like Lucas, on the training side of things. The military were aware of what Lucas was doing with his advanced interrogation resistance and torture survival training sessions and were interested in talking to him about updating their own training program for the special services, among other things. Wynne, who would be reinstated to his old rank of Brigadier in the counter-intelligence and insurgency section, would be running the program. Nothing was anywhere near decided yet, let alone settled but he was looking forward to discussing it with the other man and starting to work up some options.

Everyone could see it was tweaking Lucas' interest – they could almost see the cogs turning behind his eyes – but while he was thinking about it, during a natural pause in the conversation, Hope nodded towards Harry and suggested,

"You might want to talk this one into playing a part as he wrote one of the original books and has presumably revised it since."

The man in question stretched in his seat.

"I have. Several times, with input from as many sources as I could get hold of." He was thinking specifically of Adam at that point but there was something in Hope's wide green eyes and focussed, intensely interested expression as she looked at him that threw him somewhere entirely different: back to a night in a bar in Berlin over twenty five years before. The three of them – Hope, her then squeeze Jim Coaver and himself – having a relaxed night out as the Soviet empire collapsed around them and talking about what the future might bring. Not much of it had come true, of course, and it was nothing to do with what they were talking about in the here and now but it was the second time today that such memories had arisen, with all their pleasure as well as their pain. This time around at least it was more the former than the latter. It occurred to him to wonder if Hope was even aware of what had happened to her former short-term lover – they had made a very good looking couple, he remembered fondly – but today wasn't the time to discuss it. Maybe some time in the future.

That future wasn't as far removed as he had thought it would be. Had he remembered better he would have realised that Hope would have noticed something about his reactions. However, the initial moment passed without comment; later, just after the sun had disappeared behind the hills to the west, briefly lighting up the base of the remaining clouds with incandescent yellow, orange and red while their tops were a shining white fading into lilac and blue, he found out the truth.

He had left the group down on the lower level, picking at the remains of lunch that a few of them had retrieved from the fridge, while he wandered off to find the amenities; on the way back, side-tracked by the beauty of the sky and the lights beginning to twinkle on the far side of the lake, he diverted out onto a small covered deck off to the side of the kitchen, leaning on the railings to take in the view and the pleasure of some cool, early evening air. Five minutes later barely audible footsteps padding towards him warned him that he was about to have company. He didn't move as the woman joined him, leaning companionably against the railing. Her green eyes slid towards him just as his dark ones slid towards hers; a slight smile tweaked his lips as he said, gravely,

"Hello, Hope."

Her own smile started out just as slight but broadened as she spoke, somewhat teasingly.

"Hello…Laurence! It's about time I got you on your own for a catch up."

They chatted for a little while, mostly in generalities and sooner rather than later found themselves returning to times past, firstly to their international joint exercise chasing drug barons in Thailand back in the early nineties then further back to London before finally ending up, as they always knew it would, in Germany in 1989.

Late Summer, a couple of months before the Wall finally came down, Hope had been sent there by her superiors at ASIS to monitor the collapse of the Soviet Union from the epicentre of the events and had been supplied with the names of a couple of contacts, one from the local CIA desk and the other from MI6: James Jeffrey Coaver and Henry James Pearce, respectively. Thereafter known as Jim and Harry, they had a few short weeks of working and socialising together, all quite intense within the pressure cooker environment that was West Berlin at the time. Hope and Jim had taken full advantage, on the few occasions they could, of the no-strings-attached environment, albeit extremely discretely; Harry, still silently smarting from the scars inflicted by Elena Gavrik and the subsequent loss of his wife and family, at that point had been quite content to be the third wheel in the triumvirate.

This evening inevitably stirred up more memories as soon as they found themselves back a quarter of a century, memories that were now inevitably tinged for Harry by guilt-ridden sadness at Jim's end in that featureless London street with the rain gently falling around them as MI5 and the CIA faced off against each other, unknowing pawns in the hand of that same icy Russian puppet-master. A wistfulness crept into his voice; after a momentary break Hope gazed upwards at the burgeoning stars, enjoying the gentle evening breeze on her face, and asked quietly,

"What aren't you telling me? About Jim."

He quirked an eyebrow at her but she wasn't looking.

"What makes you think that?"

A smile flickered across her lips as she turned her attention from the stars to the waxing crescent moon that was descending to the west.

"Because every time you get anywhere near the subject you react. It's subtle and most people wouldn't notice but I do. And I bet Iona never misses it, either."

He hesitated and then sighed.

"No, she doesn't. But then she caries her own guilt as well – considers herself at least partly responsible for what happened, although she is not."

Finally she looked directly at him, her face largely shadowed but with moonlit highlights.

"What _did_ happen? I heard through the grapevine when he died but never anything about how."

It wasn't a memory he cared to revisit but under the circumstances he would: she was entitled to know.

Hope listened quietly to the succinct, brutally honest account. She had genuinely liked Jim and they had kept in intermittent touch for many years but she had always had a strange feeling that he wouldn't make old bones. But not like that, not caught up as a bystander in some tawdry, misplaced attempt to influence European politics run by a sad psychopath lost in a past that could never be real again, was never real in the first place. That fate was neither fair nor worthy of the man. A wave of sadness tinged with regret and ennui swept over her and she closed her eyes for a moment.

"He was a good man. He deserved better."

When she looked at him again her eyes were suddenly ancient, as deep as the ocean and as green as the forest and in the face of their penetrating gaze Harry could only confess, tinged with bitter self-loathing,

"Yes, and I was so tied up in my own problems that I forgot that."

Her silence was neither angry nor judgemental, as he may have expected. Instead, it was, if anything, calming, almost zen-like as she honed in on the salient point.

"You were with him at the end?"

He nodded, wordless, and they locked eyes for a long moment. That was when they both felt it: the _frisson_ of something so light and insubstantial that it blew away on the wind, an insubstantial whisper of what might have been, an alternate future – forever unknowable, now – viewed through the prism of distorting glass filling the schism in space and time that had prevented it from ever happening. Gone in an instant, it nevertheless left a faint echo of its electricity behind as she touched his hand gently and said,

"That's all that matters."

Reflexively winding his fingers through hers and giving them a squeeze as he fought the sudden misting of his eyes ( _he hadn't realized he was still so upset by it all_ ) he gazed down and replied,

"I'm not so sure about that, as it _was_ my fault, at least in part."

"Harry, look at me." It had been so long since anyone had used his name that he obeyed, startled. "It was not and you know it." She shook his hand and then let go. "You might be good but you're no mind reader so how the hell were you supposed to know that would happen? You had no idea what the Russians were up to and, even if Jim did suspect, he wouldn't have expected them to snatch him out of your grasp so blatantly. What happened, happened, and he didn't die alone. If he had to go like that, at least he had one of his oldest friends with him."

Ruth, who had been inside refilling the decanter of water from the fridge, had seen the look pass between them and the touch that followed and had suddenly plunged into fear, demons that she had thought long-buried suddenly peering up through a crack in the floor. She had sidled over to listen, hating herself for it, and had been intensely relieved to hear the conversation that followed. The green-eyed monster that had done so much damage in earlier times hadn't raised its head for years so its reappearance now was a genuine, very unwelcome, surprise. Determinedly, she shook herself, forced the dragon back into its den and resolutely turned away. Blind Freddy could see that Hope and Wynne adored each other, to the exclusion of the rest of the world; she and Harry were much the same so the monster could disappear back into its dark corner and stay there because she was well and truly sick of it and its sour exhalations. Taking the decanter, she moved away as quietly as she had arrived.

Oblivious out on the patio, Harry had acknowledged the truth in Hope's words with a sigh.

"I know. But don't tell me that you don't still harbour, somewhere deep in your soul, some residual, misplaced guilt for what happened to Wynne in Timor."

 _Ouch!_ Her smile was rueful.

"Touche!" She straightened up, stretched and checked her watch. "We've got to make tracks soon so we'd better get back inside."

Harry checked for himself and was surprised to see it was after eight.

"So do we." They returned indoors and continued talking as they moved towards the stairs. "We're on the road again tomorrow and need to get going early so we'd better go and do our good guest thing by helping to clean up."

Raucous laughter came from the lounge on the lower level where the others were congregated and the pair stopped to look over the balcony wall so see Lucas now sandwiched between Ilian and Meg, the three of them shaking with laughter at something, while Ruth and Wynne were comfortably ensconced on the smaller sofa, heads together momentarily before they grinned at each other, sat back, clinked their glasses together in a toast and drank. Hope smiled gently at the sight and then huffed something that was half sigh, half groan at her companion.

"Half your luck. I wish we could run away but we can't: we've only been back for a week so we'll be back to house-hunting tomorrow. If we can afford anything: the prices here these days are ridiculous."

He winked at her, suddenly reminding her of the sun-burned rogue in Bangkok all those years ago.

"Don't worry, you can always pitch a tent on the lawn on the roof of Parliament House!"


	6. Chapter 6

**5\. 19/01/2015**

 **11:00. Bateman's Bay**

 _I thought it was supposed to be Summer,_ Lucas grumbled to himself as he dashed through an unexpected flurry of rain back to his Hilux, clutching his shopping bags in one hand and keeping his light jacket closed against the sudden chilly breeze with the other. Granted, it had been bordering on cold when he had been out for his morning swim – all of fifteen degrees, as he found out when he checked his weather station on his return – but he had expected it to warm up by now and it hadn't. It must be making a difference for Harry and Ruth, wherever their exact location somewhere south of him this morning was, from what they were now used to, might almost remind them of home, although whether that was necessarily a good thing was a point to ponder. He suspected it wouldn't really matter if it did. Like himself, they were used to their new lives and, although they all occasionally missed specific things and people, they also knew there was no going back. To be honest, none of them wished to, any more. It would be going backwards in more ways than one.

The rain continued as he drove out of the supermarket carpark and onto the highway which had him crossing the Clyde River almost straight away. He always enjoyed the view from the old lifting bridge with its heavy, grey iron girder frame. The river was large, for this country, and, unlike the majority of rivers west of the Great Dividing Range, was permanently full of water. Upstream to his left it stretched away between bush covered hills with a few small yachts and houseboats moored nearby; downstream to the east it widened out quickly towards its mouth and the sea beyond, where Snapper Island was just visible through the haze of the rain. The foreshores on this side were much more manicured, with a rock wall on the southern bank and lawn around small cabins at the caravan park on the northern and more yachts floating serenely, like overgrown swans, on the calm surface of the water. Despite its name, he had come to like the town which was still redolent of its fishing village past but was large enough to provide all the facilities he required yet far enough away from his small acreage to give him the peace and quiet he craved.

By the time the isolated bus-stop that marked his turn-off appeared the rain had cleared and the clouds were thinning, allowing more light through and brightening the green of the paddocks that he was passing through. Forested hills and valleys soon replaced those paddocks and the view closed in as trees stretched up towards the sky. He wondered how far behind him his visitors were. They were supposed to arrive for lunch and then stay the night; glancing at the clock on the dashboard he realized they probably weren't that far from arriving. Last night they had been down near the Victorian border, in Eden, and the plan had been for a leisurely drive up the coast to his place, taking in the spectacular scenery all the way. Their exact arrival time was dependent on how side-tracked they got by that scenery whilst _en-route._ Lucas rather hoped that they had stopped for morning tea somewhere to give him a bit more time to get ready; Hazel had helped him tidy up yesterday but she had gone back to town early this morning for her working week and he still had some stuff to do.

It was with a sense of relief, therefore, that he arrived at his unprepossessing gate to find no trace of visitors. Something over an hour later everything was done and he settled himself in on his sun lounge with a tall glass of iced tea to contemplate the waves marching steadily in to break on the beach – he couldn't hear them so clearly at this hour of the day but he could feel them – and the events of the last twenty-four hours.

Although he had enjoyed a quiet weekend with Hazel he had been a little distracted for most of it, not only by his prospective visitors but because he hadn't heard from Brendan for a few days. The last contact had been an email on Thursday evening from Cyril's account to Miles', innocuous in content and coded to say that activity in the group had picked up but there was still no decision on a target. That wasn't the worry. He was more concerned because after the new year the inner circle group had stopped using their tatty little hall and had taken, instead, to meeting at Samatar and Alsoswa's house, meaning they had lost their ability to eavesdrop at will, although Brendan had managed to place a couple of very basic bugs during his second visit, which meant they could hear some of what was being said, after a fashion. He had impressed on his young protégée the importance of staying in touch and Brendan did but he wasn't quite as regular as he should have been; it was something they were going to have to talk about.

The boy had finally put him out of his misery on Sunday afternoon. A message this time – he and Hazel had been down at the beach for a quick dip – saying that all was good and that there was meeting on tomorrow night that he thought was going to be it, where they finally decided what they were going to do and where. Lucas had silently cursed at that, it was lousy timing as far as he was concerned with his visitors, but by the same token he realized that there would have been no point in him rushing up to the city to hover over Brendan anyway. Under the new conditions that would have just brought unwanted attention because he would have stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb in that part of town. The obbo crew were having enough of an issue as it was.

He hadn't said anything to Hazel about it and she had apparently not noticed. The same couldn't be said later when they were out on the deck having an _aperitif_ before dinner and enjoying the fading light over the water. His work phone chirped; tempted to ignore it he nonetheless didn't and found Lorraine on the other end. The discussion was short and to the point but it also made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Over the past few weeks Samatar and Bolzaar seemed to have ceased their suspected involvement in supporting _jihadis_ traveling to and from the Middle East, probably due to having other things closer to home to concentrate on so Lorraine's crew had been poking around in the backgrounds of the others involved in the small group, including the wives and girlfriends.

Nothing untoward had come up on the Egyptian, Omar Hadad, although it appeared he was on the way to a stellar career in advanced computer engineering, or had been until now; Mustafa Abdul-Rahman had been born and grown up as Jimmy Cliff in Stepney and been disruptive at school but quite bright, completing an electrical apprenticeship before emigrating in his mid-twenties and converting to Islam, reasons unknown, eighteen months ago, becoming a prolific user of IS websites. Feysal, the other Somali, was still largely a mystery but there was a fairly strong possibility that he had known Samatar in Mogadishu and may even have had some sort of association with Osama bin Laden at the same time and place. On this day, though, something had finally turned up from a direction they hadn't really expected. Although Brendan had.

According to the CIA desk in Kuwait City, Qirfa Alsoswa wasn't entirely what she seemed. Far from being the devoted little wife and mother she liked everyone to think she was, she had a background that, now they knew about it, raised red flags everywhere. Born in Kuwait just before the First Gulf War to an Iraqi mother and an Iraqi-Yemeni father, her mother had been killed during the invasion and both sets of grand-parents had later been murdered by the regime of Saddam Hussein during the early 1990s. Her father, a petroleum engineer, had fled to relatives in Yemen – all members of the same ethnic Kindite clan as Osama bin Laden – after that, taking his two children with him, and then later spent some time in Saudi Arabia before returning to Sana'a but was currently living in Dubai with his second wife and a young second family. His eldest child, Qirfa's brother, had rejected everything about his background and was now living and working quietly in Canada but Qirfa had gone the other way, becoming extremely, puritanically devout during their time in Saudi. Shortly before the arrival of Samatar in Yemen she had, according to the CIA, become an active member of Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. As far as they knew, she still was. She had certainly had a vigorous on-line presence, albeit on the dark web under a number of obscure aliases, calling for revenge on the infidels of America and all of their lap-dogs for the usual reasons but, specifically, also for the death of her mother.

Lucas' stomach had dropped as he listened to Lorraine's matter-of-fact delivery. Brendan had said at the outset that there was something fishy about Samatar's wife and now it looked like his gut was right. He had wandered away from Hazel during the call and was now leaning on the railing at the far end of the deck, next to the steps, watching the last of the surfers coming in to shore before it got completely dark.

"Have you told Brendan?"

"Not yet. I thought you might want to."

"Okay."

The follow up call to the lad had been succinct. He hadn't sounded particularly surprised and had taken it in his stride, leaving Lucas a little worried, after they had finished the conversation, that Brendan wasn't fully aware of the implications and dangers. He needn't have been: back in his small unit in Newtown, Brendan dropped his phone on the coffee table in front of his beaten up, second hand sofa, leaned back in the seat and blew out his cheeks. _Shit!_ He was sweating slightly and his heart was hammering as he processed the news that his initial suspicions were correct: Qirfa Alsoswa was the real power behind the group: she was the one with the genuine religious fervour and taste for personal revenge, the others were just along for the pleasure of terrorizing and killing. Shutting his eyes for a minute or two he concentrated on bringing his breathing back under control to calm his shaken nerves. It wouldn't do to have Uncle Joe or Aunty Ruby think he wasn't up to it. And he needed to prove to himself that he was up to this job. He had done it before so surely he could do it again?

At Siding Bay Lucas did something similar, quietly ending the call and taking a few moments to school his face so that Hazel wouldn't pick up on his worries. Turning around and returning to join her he sat down to find himself the subject of her dark, velvety, contemplative gaze. After a few seconds she said quietly,

"Have you got a copy of the Act on you?"

He blinked, disconcerted.

"Pardon?"

"The Official Secrets Act," she enunciated carefully, still holding his look. "Give it to me to sign, then you can talk. You're clearly worried about that phone call."

Nonplussed still, he didn't quite know how to answer. Although he had known her for a year – they had met when he had been sent to her physio and natural therapies practice for some work on a knee he had twisted badly when he had made an abortive attempt to learn how to surf – and they had been a solid item for six months or more she still surprised him with her acute assessments on a regular basis. Now she made another one.

"You do work for the security services, don't you? It's the only thing that makes sense: obscure phone calls, never anything specific mentioned about what you do or who you work with, mysterious background—" She suddenly stopped, took in his expression and reached out a hand to take his. "It's okay. Forget I mentioned it. It doesn't matter to me, you know that, I just thought it might help if you ever need to talk about things and if we intend to continue on together we might as well get it out of the way."

He was still struggling to take it in: either he was losing his touch, which he was willing to concede, or she knew more about his business than he would have expected, which begged the question of how? Continuing to look at her he absently noted yet again how much she reminded him not only of his first love, Maya, with her dark eyes and olive skin (although Hazel had a head of white hair, despite being the same age as he was: she had apparently gone completely grey in her early thirties, following a genetic quirk in her family) but also of his ex wife, Elizaveta, with her softness and acceptance of his foibles. He suddenly realized that he did want to continue on with her, to explore where they might go, and that if that was the case she would need to know, eventually, about the Greek tragedy that was his past. The expression on his face turned speculative; seeing it, the woman smiled again and added,

"You wouldn't be the first in the family, you know, so it's not like I'm unfamiliar with it all, or have problems with it."

Finally finding his voice, Lucas lifted her hand and kissed it.

"So who was the first in the family?"

"You know my grand-mother was Jewish, from the south of Belgium, and escaped as a teenager to England with her family just before the Germans invaded?" He nodded, remembering her mentioning it fairly early on. "What I haven't told you is that she was a member of the SOE during the war; spent the better part of three years with the Resistance in France, doing things that she never really talked about – for extremely good reasons – until near her end and even then she left out the worst of it. I will show you the book she wrote it all down in one day, that we didn't find until after she died, tucked away in a drawer along with her Légion d'Honneur citation and medal." They both cogitated on that for a moment and what it represented. "Then there's my uncle who's recently retired from another branch of the Attorney-General's Department—" her sudden grin was teasing "—whom I will tell you about _after_ we've got the paperwork done!"

The sound of an approaching vehicle brought him back to the present. He had left the gate on auto open just in case his visitors arrived if he wasn't within earshot of the intercom and it appeared that he had judged correctly. The clock on the side cabinet chimed gently to tell him it was one o'clock: they were right on time.

Harry and Ruth arrived bearing several treats from the bakery in town as a nod to his sweet tooth; these were devoured, along with freshly brewed coffee and discussions about the beauty of their morning drive, after the simple but tasty lunch that their host had provided. The house tour had happened before the meal, as they were shown to their room for the night; after the meal they wandered outside to admire the view and ended up going for a walk down to the beach.

The clouds had largely disappeared by now and the day was lovely: still cool but with bright, warm sunlight and almost no breeze so the ocean within the protected confines of the bay was almost glassy, a liquid aquamarine that barely susurrused on the sandy shore. There were few people around – just an elderly man walking an equally elderly dog and a couple of disappointed grommets who were trudging back up towards the track and their bicycles, boogie boards under their arms and complaining volubly of the lack of waves, as the trio arrived – so they wandered at will, making their way to the far headland and back at an easy stroll. On the return Ruth went ahead to explore the rock pools on the wave-cut platform, leaving the two men to their own devices and they were now quietly splashing through the shallows. Out at sea a container ship was progressing slowly northwards towards Wollongong port; Lucas was half a dozen steps further on when he realized that Harry had stopped and was standing ankle-deep in the water, apparently watching the ship, face expressionless. There was something slightly odd about his stance – almost as though he was frozen to the spot – and Lucas frowned momentarily before walking back to join his former boss.

"So how are you, Laurence? Really. Has this trip achieved its purpose?"

Harry, who was miles away, took a moment to register his words.

"What? Yes, yes, everything is fine between us now. Thank you for asking." His attention moved back to the ship, leaving the younger man unsettled. He knew his friends had been through a rough patch about six months away: not long after their villa was finally finished and the farm was up and running Harry had found himself with considerably less to do and, with Ruth either at work or buried in her doctoral thesis and its associated concerns, he was at a loose end too often. Busying himself with his syndicated articles hadn't been enough and, slowly, some of his old demons had started to come back. Very specifically, Bill Crombie's horrifically disfigured body, now strangely mixed up with that of Helen Flynn and Zafar Younis and another chimaera composed of the destroyed remains of Adam, Connie and Ros had begun to haunt his dreams, both sleeping and waking and had revived something of the depression that had dogged him since the sudden death of his mother over forty years before.

Ruth had been aware of it and had spoken to Lucas once when he had called but had felt like she couldn't get through to her husband. Lucas, using his own issues as an ice-breaker, had then broached the subject during a call and had been slightly surprised when Harry had actually admitted not only to what was happening but to a creeping sense of guilt over the worry he was inflicting on his wife. They had talked once or twice more after that – it was amazing how much easier it was for both, this discussing of deeply private things at a vast distance to a disembodied voice and Harry had suddenly understood the attraction of the confessional box – but it was Ray Williams who had finally taken action. Having battled post-traumatic stress disorder since his return from Vietnam and spent many of the years since helping other veterans through the same process, he recognized it for what is was in his English friend and, brooking no argument, had packed up Harry and some camping gear and dragged him by the scruff of the neck to the remote, closed veteran's retreat Pandanus Park. Located at the southern end of Cape York but many, many kilometers east of Capricorn Downs, Ray had been involved in originally setting the place up with his former commanding officer and so had no trouble taking Harry, a military veteran anyway, there. They had been gone for two weeks but whatever occurred there had largely done the trick, for the moment at least, and things had returned to normal at home afterwards, albeit with both halves of the couple making a deliberate effort to not block each other out of their worries.

This driving trip had been the idea of Ray's wife and Ruth's co-worker, Marie, an opportunity for he and Ruth to get away from things for a while and rediscover each other as they had while they had initially been on the run in Europe. It had worked, too, but he was still prey to his megrims and one had just overtaken him again. Squeezing his eyes shut he glanced up at Lucas and, when the man didn't say any more, sighed.

"My apologies, Nathan. The past is impossible to leave behind, isn't it? It pops up when you least expect it, like now. For some reason that ship out there has just reminded me of Dimitri and Beth. God knows where she is now but I've heard through the grapevine that he has been seconded to Six and has gone back to the Middle East, under cover. Which probably means Syria and we both know what that means."

He did. Picking up a piece of glass, worn smooth and translucent by years in the water, he skipped it across the water and they watched, both silently counting, as it made it to four skips before sinking. In the silence that followed Lucas said,

"I bumped into her once, you know. Beth. When I was working in that area myself."

"Where?"

"In a bar in Marseilles. It was a dive but popular with the international mercenary community when they were in town. I was there one night, drowning my sorrows, and so was she, although I didn't recognize her at first, with dark hair."

Harry thought about the last time he had seen her, at her work station late in the evening the night he had been escorted off the Grid to his gardening leave, blue eyes wide with a prescient dread as she followed his path across the floor to the pods.

"She was okay?"

"Yes. As far as she could be – she really hadn't wanted to leave Five once you let her back in – but she gave me an absolute mouthful. All justified, I might add. She was also the one who told me you were dead."

His companion nodded, sadly.

"More lies. Necessary lies but lies nonetheless. That was Dimitri's idea, I believe, according to our inside source."

"Malcolm?" Lucas guessed, unable to think of anyone else it could be.

"No." Harry suddenly smiled. "Tariq! He stays in touch by circuitous means with Iona. As I do with Malcolm." His smile faded as his eyes were irresistibly drawn back to the ship. "So many lies. So much waste. But we need to accept the past and let it go. Or so I'm told." His attention turned to Ruth, absorbed in watching a blue-ringed octopus that she had spotted in one of the larger pools. "Is that how you cope? With Russia and everything before…and after?"

"There's not much else you can do. The shrinks are right: you have to forgive yourself, ultimately. I'm nowhere near there yet and never will be, after…Dakar." The word stuck in his throat but he forced it out anyway. That was all part of facing up to his past and trying to build a future that he could live in. "But I will spend the rest of my life trying to get there."

A pair of seagulls, squabbling over something while on the wing, dropped over their heads, causing them both to start and then laugh as they began walking again. Ruth looked towards them and called something not quite audible, eyes glowing even at this distance and looking all of about sixteen in the late afternoon light. Harry's heart leapt as he acknowledged for the first time in too long how fortunate he was to have her, for them to still be together and happy despite all their problems and the best efforts of the Fates in the past to keep them apart while Lucas, watching the couple's subliminal communication, was equally suddenly subject to a mixture of envy and yearning. Envy at what they had and yearning to achieve something similar one day. Despite his past record he knew now it was possible: not only did he have the example in front of him but also that of Ilian and Meg and even Wynne and Hope. He might get there with Hazel, he might not, but he would give it a damned good try.

Dinner was casual: a barbeque on the deck with its spectacular ocean views where the colours were fading from the brightness of the afternoon to the cooler pastels of the evening. Afterwards, as the temperature dropped sharply when the sun finally went down, they moved inside where the conversation turned, almost inevitably, to the events in Paris of only a few days before at the Charlie Hebdo offices and elsewhere in Paris. They all feared what it presaged, for Europe and the rest of the world; Harry, bluntly, stated what they were all thinking and that he had been saying in his columns for months.

"Things will get worse – a lot worse – before they get better. If they get better. It's going to be a long, bloody war and at this stage the outcome is anybody's guess. If I am being honest I'm glad to be out of it. The level of violence and barbarity these people exhibit haven't been seen in Europe since the Dark Ages and at my age I'm not sure I would be up to the fight." He suddenly leaned forward, grabbed the wine bottle and topped up their glasses. "This is far too dark a topic for so lovely an evening. Let us talk of other things. Tell us about your philanthropic trust, Nathan: where are you up to with that?"

As it turned out he was progressing, but still slowly. He was happily giving plenty of support for small issues – he had developed a particular appreciation of the work done by volunteer bush fire brigades and surf lifesaving clubs around the country and enjoyed anonymously donating to their causes – but at the larger scale he was still working out what, how and where. He had an idea revolving around setting up something to help survivors of torture and terrorist attacks, particularly bombings ( _'yes, I have taken up your suggestion and yes, I am trying to assuage my guilt,'_ he had said before anyone else could), and had discussed it with Ilian, his shrinks and, last week, Wynne and Hope. They all thought it was a good idea so next month he was going to catch up with Meg in her legal capacity as she had promised to introduce him to some specialists in the appropriate fields to see what was going to be required. None of it was going to happen in a hurry but he was happy that at least things had begun to move. Beyond that he hadn't thought. Hope had quoted him some Lao Tzu the other day, when they had been talking about it:

" _The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."_

He liked the concept and had taken it as his guiding light, for this project and the rest of his life. One step at a time, always moving forward, and he would get there.

That led them back to work, or his work anyway. Harry was open about his concern that the torture survival training would be having a negative effect on his former Section Chief's psychological balance but Lucas was equally open and adamant that, initially under the supervision of his medical professionals but now mostly without them, it was actually achieving the opposite. He still had his nightmares occasionally but in the passing on of everything he had learned, both from within himself and from others, such as Hamet, during his time inside the Russian prison system he found both catharsis for his own ghosts and quiet satisfaction that what he was doing would hopefully save some lives, a life, one day.

In a natural progression they turned to the immediate future and specifically whatever was being planned for him to be doing with Wynne. More of the same but at a much more intense level for the special forces troops but there was going to be more to it than that. Ilian had long been tapping into the knowledge that Lucas had gained working inside Hamet Fasli's organization as well as those others he had subcontracted to by way of Hamet's contacts; now, they were going to be building on that knowledge and similar available from others as part of a major rewrite of the training manual for the security services. He had smiled at that point, a little slyly.

"That's where you come into it, Laurence. As we agreed at Christmas, we will be drawing on your experience to review what we're doing, make sure we cover everything."

Harry looked surprised – he hadn't taken the suggestion seriously – but Ruth just laughed quietly because she knew it would be right up his alley.

"I thought you were joking," he objected weakly but Lucas just shook his head. "But surely anything I could bring to the process would be well out of date for modern times? I'm old-school, as you well know! Iona would be of more use – at least she's not a technological luddite."

"I'll disagree with that," the woman responded, still smiling. "You like to make out you're a luddite but you're not and you know it."

"On the contrary, you were the hacker. You still are, when you're chasing something you need for university!"

"Before this descends into a domestic tiff," the younger man broke in, "I'm going to point out that this is exactly why we want you on board. _Because_ you're old-school. You've done the lot, you know all the old ways as well as the new and, more importantly, you know what works and what doesn't. Despite modern technology, none of that has really changed – sometimes the old ways are the best. They've worked for centuries, after all. And actually, now you've mentioned it, we might just get _you—_ " he nodded towards Ruth "—to run your eyes over the electronic intelligence gathering part, after all your years at GCHQ and then on the Grid. We've got someone from the Signals Directorate doing the rewrite but it won't hurt to have someone external we can trust to look over it. If you're agreeable."

She was, and said so, muttering something only semi-audible about " _being better than dealing with academic idiots in ivory towers"_. At that point Harry had regaled Lucas with what Ruth felt was a vastly exaggerated tale of how excited she had been when they had visited the Tidbinbilla deep space tracking facility outside of Canberra just before Christmas and how her eyes had shone like beacons at the sight of the dishes pointing skywards. She protested; he denied that he was inflating her response (which he actually wasn't) and Lucas just grinned, knowing perfectly well that Ruth would have been like a kid in a lolly shop. She might not miss the people at Cheltenham but she certainly did love, and miss, the technology involved.

"Anyway, to get back to the subject, there's money in it for you and you wouldn't have to come down here, you could both stay on the farm and do your bit. It might be more useful that way anyway because Major Williams, who wrote a large part of the training manuals back in the 1970s, will also be involved so you can get your grizzled heads together over a few beers…"

Ruth and Harry glanced at each other – they should have guessed that Ray would have a hand in it – then Harry sniffed and raised an eyebrow at Lucas.

"Cut it out with the ageist comments, you young whipper-snapper. Hang on, how old are you these days? Make that _middle-aged_ whipper-snapper!"

They all grinned at that and Lucas got up to retrieve a bottle of port and some glasses from his side cabinet. Returning and pouring the drinks, as he handed them around he added, very quietly,

"Of course there is more to what we're doing that what we've already talked about." His blue eyes stopped dancing. "This is very, very _sub rosa_ at the moment _._ It came from Ilian originally, after she'd been in a few high level meetings of all the security services, the police and a few others and Hope is getting us to look into it. We are to attempt to develop a framework for a program to de-redicalise non-Muslim young people who are getting sucked into ISIS. Ilian thinks I might have some additional insight due to what happened to me. What I did in Dakar."

The older couple were not quite sure what to say, it had come out so matter-of-factly. Initially surprised, it only took a moment for them to realize that Ilian was, in fact, spot on. Of all of them, Lucas was in a unique position to at least partially understand the thought processes and attractions that were drawing young men into the vacuum of eternal darkness from all over the world, including advanced western nations such as those they were now living in and also to now have the experience and the willingness to look into his past, objectively. Ruth was the first to respond, softly.

"She may well be right, Nathan. If you can stand the digging into that part of your psyche that it would require. If you can identify what drew you in you may be able to provide some guidance for what might short-circuit the process. For some, at least."

He nodded, slowly.

"I know. I believe I _can_ now stand the digging; the eidetic memory hasn't let me forget a single thing anyway so I might as well turn it to some good—" A ringing phone interrupted him and he glanced over to the recharge station, slightly startled. It was the work phone; at this hour of the evening that meant either bad news or Brendan. "Sorry, I have to answer that."

It was Brendan. He had just got out of the planning meeting where it had taken every ounce of self control he had, and then some, to maintain his façade. They had finished with prayers and then, yet again, he had had to put up with Wanawangul's sickening fascination with the gory details of the latest death-porn videos to pop up on his favourite web-sites on the train ride home. Brendan was certain that several of his co-conspirators got hard-ons from watching the stuff…

Now, he had got home, locked the door behind him, checked all the windows, gone into his tiny bathroom and turned on both the tap and the shower as he had made the call to Uncle Joe. He had been seriously spooked by what had finally been revealed and was desperate to talk to his handler about it but without the possibility of being overheard. Not that they had actually named targets, beyond it being the city centre, but they had confirmed that it was going to be Australia Day and that they were out to wreak the most havoc they could in the shortest possible time. At the moment all he knew was that it involved the Egyptian computer expert, Omar Hadad and a drone, along with guns and other weapons that would be handed out on the day and, finally, at least one bomb. Everyone would be acting independently once they got to the location. As far as scale was concerned Brendan knew it wasn't a patch on what had been planned by Agustina Shinwari and Hamzah Rashid from Capricorn Downs but if it went ahead it would still be the biggest event of its kind to happen on this continent. And he was scared.

Lucas wandered away from his guests during the phone call but was less worried about them overhearing anything so had stayed in the large, open plan room, gazing out through the plate glass windows to the darkness beyond, lit only by a few solar lights scattered around the perimeter, as he talked. The couple had moved to the other end, into the kitchen, to make a pot of tea and give him a bit more space but they could still hear him calming the other person down. One comment caught their attention.

"What do you mean you think they don't entirely trust you?"

That didn't auger well for whomever it was he was talking to and they could both hear the undertone of worry in his voice.

The tea was brewed by the time Lucas finished talking and Ruth wordlessly poured him a cup as he returned to join them.

"That sounded intense," Harry commented, stirring sugar into his drink. "Are you back in the field again?"

The other man ran a hand over his face before reaching for his tea.

"No, not really. But I've got a protégée who is and that was him." He took a sip, leaned back in his seat and sighed, staring up at the ceiling. "Do you remember Brendan? The young indigenous boy from the cattle station?" They both nodded. "That was him. He's infiltrated a small group affiliated with Islamic State and Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. They're about to stage an attack in the middle of Sydney somewhere, next week on Australia Day and he's both worried and scared. Worried about what he's going to be involved in and scared because he thinks they're suspicious of him: they're being cagey still about the exact details around him but he thinks some of the others know more. You probably heard me telling him that that's perfectly normal and doesn't necessarily mean anything but still… I'm going to have to ring Ilian in a minute but I want a chance to think first." He finally lowered his eyes and looked at them both. "This is worse than being in the field myself: being responsible for someone else yet unable to be out there to protect them."

A strange expression swept across Harry's face, so much more expressive now than it had ever been on the Grid. Ruth could figure out what it was about but not so Lucas.

"What's that about?"

The older man returned the question with the dark, penetrating gaze that Lucas knew so well from the past.

"Perhaps now you are beginning to understand what I went through every day. Constantly on the edge of my seat, worried sick, but never able to show the slightest sign to anyone. Not to my team, for fear of infecting them with my trepidation, not to my so-called superiors in case they used it against all of us. And yes, it is much harder than actually being out there yourself. That is one part of the job that I really do not miss."

Harking back to their earlier conversation on the beach Lucas asked,

"How did you cope with that for all those years?"

Harry shrugged.

"Training. Practice. Genuinely delegating and trusting people to be as capable as you think they are." He suddenly flashed a smile. "And whiskey. A good single malt does wonders!" He drained his cup and exchanged a glance with Ruth. "You can only do so much, Nathan. If it's any help the boy is in good hands. Now, you need to call Ilian and it's getting late so we might leave you to it."

They got up, gathered together the tea cups and now-empty pot and took them back to the kitchen while Lucas stretched and thought about what had been said. Harry was right, he knew that, but it didn't make the situation any easier. The couple were saying good-night; suddenly gripped by unease he stood up and said,

"If you're still in Sydney next week be careful. Please."


	7. Chapter 7

**6\. 26/01/2015**

 **04:15. Canberra**

Dark shapes – trees, the neighbours' cars, wandering kangaroos – were briefly, brilliantly lit up by her headlights as Ilian pulled out of her driveway and wound her way through the weakly lit suburban streets towards the main thoroughfare to work. It was still over an hour to dawn and almost two hours before her flight but she hadn't been able to sleep, keeping Meg awake with her tossings and turnings. Giving up the fight she got up, dressed, picked up her bag, kissed her wife and was now making her way to the office – on the way to the airport anyway – for a little while. Traffic was non-existent at this hour on a public holiday so it didn't take long to get there, circling around Parliament House hidden under its green lawn on the way, the most obvious part of it at this hour being the flood-lit, gigantic stainless steel flagpole on the apex of the roof – or the top of the hill, if you preferred.

Leaving everything in the car she walked through the empty corridors quickly, trying to burn out some of the nervous energy that had kept her unsettled all night. Once through the secure airlock there were more people around, night shift busily monitoring whatever popped up on the radar. There were more here this morning than usual because of what they knew was planned for Sydney; waving casually at the few people who spotted her moving through the area, Ilian sought out the night shift supervisor, a man in his late thirties with a pronounced limp who was ex-Army and had been caught in an IED blast in Afghanistan in the early days of that war.

"Anything?"

"No, Ma'am," was the response, still military-crisp. "They're all sleeping the sleep of the just, apparently."

"Or on their mats praying to their perverted god…"

"Exactly. Whatever they're doing, they're leaving not even the whisper of a footprint in either the real or the cyber world."

She left him to it and closeted herself in her office, logging into her email to see if there was anything there either. Nothing. To be honest, she hadn't really expected anything to happen overnight: according to Brendan everything was ready to go, all that was left was the final meeting in a few hours and then… Ilian didn't want to think about it as it was worrying her from just about every angle you could think of. Top of that list was the fact that she had wanted to act last night to pull all of the suspects in, thereby avoiding any risk to the greater populace. Hope, although still not officially in her job, had agreed but they had been over-ruled from higher up, specifically from the political side of life, by people who decided that it would be preferable to let the operation run and only then take out the perpetrators, red handed and providing an absolutely water-tight case against them. Ilian could actually see where they were coming from: on more than one occasion in the past they had hauled in people that they knew were planning an attack only to have the case thrown out of court due to 'lack of evidence'. _Or, more likely, the gift of the gab held by certain barristers_ , she thought sourly. She didn't know how Meg put up with them when they appeared in her court. An involuntary grin twitched her lips; actually, she did know how Meg dealt with them: with very little patience and extreme prejudice.

By 05:30 she was getting twitchy again so shut down the computer and left to prowl the frequent flyer lounge at the airport instead. She passed Ruby on the way out of the building: the other woman was looking pallid and worried so she did her best to reassure her, reminding her that not only would Lucas be around but so would Ilian herself, along with most of Lorraine's Sydney crew and the place would also be crawling with every branch of the police force that was available, along with army snipers stationed on strategic rooftops. It wouldn't stop her worrying about her nephew but sometimes it helped to be reminded of the facts. Ilian had been tempted to tell Ruby to stay away completely today but knew that would be even worse for her so had agreed to let her run head office for the day while she herself spent it on the ground in the Big Smoke. It still wouldn't stop Ruby worrying but it would be better than sitting at home, wondering.

 **08:30. ASIO office, Sydney**

Lorraine had gathered all of the main players together for a final briefing before they scattered to their operational areas. Lucas was the last to arrive, just after Ilian, and was surprised for a moment at the sea of casual dress that greeted him until he remembered what the day was. Australia Day. A celebration or a day of mourning, depending on which side of the fence you were on, commemorating the unwelcome arrival of the First Fleet and the rag-tag, largely masculine cargo of thieves, con-men, political prisoners and murderers that it carried, the chained, beaten and brutalized representatives of Britain dumped here against their will who would, out of having no choice, go on to forge their own unique take on European civilization here on the far side of the planet in a country so alien it might as well have been the moon, largely displacing the existing inhabitants in the process. There were casualties all around, of course, both in those first years and since, which left deep scars that were still raw but generally most people took the day to relax with family and friends and not take anything too seriously, including any of the official events. Hence the sea of green and gold or red white and blue that greeted him when he walked into the room.

Loud t-shirts and shorts seemed to be the order of the day, despite the forecast being for unusually cool weather; he himself was sticking with safe, anonymous jeans and a polo shirt. Ilian hadn't changed yet but she was promising that none of them was going to recognize her and Lorraine, who would be running the show from an office that they had purloined in Circular Quay railway station (working on the assumption that the biggest effect and thus most likely target would be achieved by attacking the hub of tourism in the CBD), stood out like a sore thumb in normal work clothes.

The briefing was short, sharp and to the point. They were still waiting on word of the final target from Brendan, which might throw up some difficulties if it ended up being somewhere they weren't expecting but they were planning to be mobile so, with half an hour's warning, could be in place almost anywhere. The core group had been under twenty-four hour observation for the previous week and would be shadowed every step of the way today but everyone had to be on their toes once they started to move, to prevent any chance of it all going terribly wrong.

They were as ready as they could be. At the end of the meeting word came through from the watchers that Brendan was on the move, just as Lucas received a coded text from the young man telling him the same thing. There was still no sign from the Egyptian although his English side-kick was in his car and driving in approximately Hadad's direction. Ilian and Lorraine went off to update the politicians; Lucas, like the others, was left to mill around aimlessly, making coffee and checking their equipment while they waited and tried to ignore the butterflies in their stomachs.

 **10:30 Meeting Hall, Lidcombe**

Brendan had been surprised to get the message telling him to meet at their old hall in Lidcombe. No reason had been given and his imagination had been in overdrive on the trip there but it turned out that it was merely because it was closer to town, closer to the public transport they were going to be using to get into town and had been used to hold the weapons for some months, apparently. It had also, Brendan knew, been stripped of its surveillance equipment after the meetings had moved to Samatar's residence. He knew everyone was being tailed so he just hoped that would be enough to get the surveillance teams in the right place at the right time. It had long been deemed too dangerous for him to be wired so his only comms was his phone.

The meeting had started off with prayers followed by an intense haranguing from Samatar that had gone on for over an hour. Cyril entered into it with fervour; Brendan did not. They had broken for refreshments during which time Samatar continued to exhort them to their glorious _jihad_ ; although the others that were there – Feysal, Bolzaar and Wanawangul, there was no sign of the women – were tucking in with gusto, Brendan couldn't, picking at his food under the pretext that he was still full from breakfast. Finally the moment came when the target and plan was revealed: they were all to make their way independently to the focus of today's festivities in the place that was the site of the first European settlement on the continent: The Rocks and First Fleet Park on the western side of Circular Quay.

Once there, they would effect a staged attack. Hadad would start with his drone: no toy, this was large and masquerading as a film unit but instead of a camera it would be carrying an equivalent to the Metal Storm system, developed from hacked plans by Hadad and Abdul-Rahman, and would be launched from the northern end of George Street, at the corner of the Quay, from where it would fire thousands of deadly steel needles into the crowd. Automated, it would continue to fire until it ran out of power; in the meantime Hadad was taking a pistol-sized version as well and would use it to add some impetus to the fleeing crowds while Abdul-Rahman would be at the southern entry to the Playfair Street market and would be carrying a larger model of the hand weapon as well as a razor sharp knife normally used to cut sugar cane to use on the crowds packed into the confines of the market. Once the crowds had started to panic and flee Bolzaar, at the other end of the street to Abdul-Rahman would also press the attack. While this was going on, Cameron and Brendan had their own mission: to strike down as many of the white infidels as they could, in the name of Allah and in revenge for what had been done to their ancestors.

That wasn't really news to the young man, apart from the details of the weaponry on the drone. The final announcement was new but only confirmed his worse suspicions. Samatar was almost slavering with excitement as he stood before the small group and told them about the bombs that would be the crowning glory of the day. Idil Waris Feysal and Samatar himself would be transporting the explosives into town, where they would be placed and then set off at one minute past mid-day, by way of a signal repeater for the mobile phone they would be using so that he and Feysal could spend their last few moments glorifying the _jihad_ in the best way possible with machetes and more cane knives and ensuring that the group would all enter _Firdaws_ , the highest level of Paradise, where they would dwell alongside the prophets for eternity.

Brendan's pulse rate was well above normal as they progressed through more prayers before the final gathering of the weapons and dispersal began. His mind was racing even faster than his heart as he considered, while they were praying, his options for getting the information back to Uncle Joe. There was only one way that he could see, as he was going to be saddled with Wanawangul once they left here: he was going to have to send a text before they left. From the toilet.

 **11:10 Auburn Railway Station; Meeting Hall, Lidcombe; Circular Quay**

Brendan's opportunity didn't come until the end of the meeting. The weapons on site had been distributed and prayers said over them; their watches were synchronized and everyone began to leave. Pleading a sudden need for the toilet cubicle Brendan excused himself to the last of the group, Wanawangul, and made a convincing dash into the facilities, where he locked himself in, dropped his trousers, sat down, got his phone out and madly texted a summary to Uncle Joe and Lorraine. Immediately after it went he deleted it from his call log, then leaned forward and fought to repress the wave of sickness that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn't have time for nerves, not now. Eventually he stood up, fixed his clothes, flushed the toilet and walked out.

Auburn station was, like most of its ilk, singularly unprepossessing, almost depressing, in its utilitarian austerity. Concrete platforms topped with asphalt and functional steel-framed weather shelters were as glamorous as it got but at this hour on a sunny, cool public holiday morning the commuters didn't care. They were mostly heading for the festivities on the harbour foreshore and, like the group at the meeting in town, were dressed accordingly, although here sprinkled with artistically arranged hijabs made from Australian flags, and were mostly in a jovial mood. Hadad and Abdul-Rahman arrived with a couple of minutes to spare, both carrying backpacks and dressed innocuously in jeans and t-shirts. The equipment was heavy but their task buoyed them and they chatted amiably as they waited, just another pair of locals heading for an afternoon of entertainment.

As the train rolled to a stop they picked up their bags and moved with the throng towards the open doors. Behind them, a middle aged Indonesian man, who looked a little Chinese and was dressed in board-shorts printed with the Southern Cross, a loose shirt, sandals and a beaten up bucket hat with a Boxing Kangaroo logo, got up from his seat and followed them into the carriage, continuing to talk volubly into his phone in some obscure dialect of Chinese until the train jerked into movement again. At the other end of the line one of Lorraine's analysts was translating his words for her and the rest of the small crew keeping watch over bank of CCTV screens that took up an entire wall and all the incoming audio feeds from the teams out in the field:

"On the train with Bravo Four and Five, departing Auburn now. ETA thirty five minutes."

"Stay with them," she responded before activating another broadcast and repeating the message so that Ilian, Lucas and the others could hear and acknowledge. On the train, Wisnu Haryanto, back from Darwin for the moment and being in charge of the team tasked with watching Hadad and Abdul-Rahman, kept his eyes fixed on the targets. When they moved at the other end he would be ready.

Hearing the confirmation that things were starting to move, within minutes of receiving Brendan's text, Lucas' heart leapt into his mouth. It was starting to happen. He just hoped it would all work out well. Out and about in the crowds by now, he had been circulating through the Botanic Gardens behind the Opera House, memories of the Capricorn Downs plot live in his mind, but now he threaded his way through the crowds and began to make his way towards the centre of the Quay. He wanted to be ready, no matter which way these people went when they arrived – despite Brendan's text he wouldn't put it past one of them to be unable to resist the lure of making their splash outside the iconic building on Bennelong Point.

Harry and Ruth had treated themselves to a very swish hotel for the long weekend, waking up to magnificent water views every day. This morning had been no different and they had enjoyed the panorama over a leisurely breakfast delivered to their room. Now, having watched the crowds and activities increase over the past hour or so, they had decided to go out and join the fun for a while before returning to their vantage point to watch the spectacular of the 179th Australia Day Regatta. The markets in The Rocks had just started so they made their way to the elevator and enjoyed a quiet cuddle on the way down to the ground floor. Neither had forgotten Lucas' warning but neither were inclined to let terrorists control their lives now any more than they had ever been. They would trust the locals to ensure that nothing would go wrong, even if it was still happening. Having heard nothing more from the younger man they were half-inclined to think that it was all over already.

Wanuwangul was waiting when Brendan came out of the cubicle. Startled, he grinned and said,

"Hey, bro, all ready?"

The other man didn't move, blocking the exit from the small room.

"What were you doing in there?" He was hostile, mistrustful and, now Brendan came to think about it, had been a bit off all day. Still, he grinned and responded,

"What do you think, man!"

There was no glint of returning humour.

"No you didn't. I've been here since you shut the door and the only thing I've heard was the flush. So what were you doing?"

Brendan allowed his smile to fade.

"Alright. I'm nervous, man, that's all. I thought I wanted to go but then couldn't so I just sat in there and prayed to Allah, peace be upon Him, for a moment. Now, _insha-Allah_ , I am ready to take the battle to the invading infidels."

There was silence as they eye-balled each other. Cameron Sales Wanuwangul had resented Cyril King from the day he had arrived, feeling outshone by the bright, humble scholar who had the sort of deep and abiding connection with Country that he himself could only hope for and yet who could also read the Koran in its original language. As he had quickly and obviously become a favourite with Qirfa Alsoswa the resentment had turned to hatred and so he had begun to look for reasons to mistrust the younger man. There wasn't much: about the only thing he could fix on was the other's mild obsession with his phone and he had built that up in his mind to be something suspicious. Now, for once correctly, he suspected that Cyril had been in the toilet sending text messages and he wanted to know to whom.

"Liar. You were sending texts to someone, telling them what we are doing."

The words chilled Brendan to the core. He suspected it was a lucky guess – he knew the other man didn't like him and had been looking for ways to undermine him – but it was too close to the bone and he was going to have to do something about it.

"What? No, brother, where you getting that idea from—"

Cameron suddenly grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and pushed him against the wall, almost screaming into his face.

"It's not an idea, it's the truth and I'm not the only one who thinks it!" He was lying but Cyril wouldn't know that. "You've got too much whitefella in you – all your precious university studies and devotion to their money to pay for it – and I don't trust you, you're probably working for them! So I'm going to stop you, permanently—" The fist that hit him in the solar plexus was like iron and he doubled over, unable to breathe and in intense pain but he barely had time to register it when a quick one-two to the head knocked him unconscious. Brendan shook his hands and then flexed them, cursing quietly at how painful it was to punch someone without gloves but didn't tarry, instead using the man's own belt to tie his hands behind his back before scouting around until he found some twine in the small, rickety kitchenette which he used to bind Wanawangul's feet together. He was still out for the count so Brendan rolled him on his side, used the rest of the twine to hog-tie hands and feet and then gathered together all the weapons, put in a phone call to Uncle Joe and appraised him of what had happened while he dumped the gear, very obviously and for the benefit of any remaining tails, in a wheelie-bin out the front.

Phone call over, he ran for the railway station – he didn't have long to get there before the train arrived. As it was, the thing was pulling into the station as he got there so, thankful he didn't have to get to the platform on the far side, he vaulted the ticket gates and made it on board just before the doors shut. Breathing hard, he found a seat to himself and collapsed, waiting for his heart to settle as he considered what to do at the far end. Unbeknownst to him Hadad and Abdul-Rahman were seated two carriages ahead and quietly discussing much the same thing.

 **11:48 The Rocks, Sydney**

Samatar and Feysal had been the first to arrive, five minutes ago, having dumped their car in a small lane nearby and walked the rest of the way. They were being shadowed and filmed every step of the way. Then the train carrying Brendan, Wisnu, Hadad and Abdul-Rahman had pulled in at much the same time as the car carrying Bolzaar dropped him off almost at the northern end of George Street, near the overpass leading the famous Bridge which towered overhead.

Lucas was waiting for Brendan at Pier Six at the western end of the Quay and only about 100m from the stage set up in First Fleet Park; Ilian was circulating through the crowd, unrecognised by any of her crew, between the southern end of the markets and the Park and Lorraine, in her electronic eyrie, suddenly felt like an overworked air traffic controller trying to juggle several incoming squadrons of FA-18s. All over this part of the city adrenaline was flowing like water while nerves were stretching ever tighter and dozens of pairs of eyes were watching, endlessly watching, fearful of missing something, anything.

Ruth and Harry had made their leisurely way down Hickson Road and part of George Street before turning left past Cadman's Cottage so they could walk to First Fleet Park along the water front, enjoying the spectacular view of the Quay and the Opera House across the inlet. Like a few other people around this day they could never now look at the unique building without remembering how close it had come to being the epicentre of something that would have changed the city forever. Ruth would always be transported to that confrontation on the tarmac at Cairns airport while Harry's memories revolved around a small aeroplane and a road out in the middle of nowhere with bullets, blood and dead bodies everywhere…

He shivered as someone walked over his grave then subconsciously shook himself. Nothing was going to happen here today. His wife eyed him curiously, aware of some passing wraith disturbing his peace, but the racket of a train rolling into the elevated platform a couple of hundred metres ahead of them disturbed her thoughts and nothing more was said. Stopping by the Harbour Master's Steps and settling in to enjoy their surroundings they were completely unaware that Lucas was on the corner of the Quay, almost within shouting distance.

 **11:49**

A well-kept four-wheel drive stopped briefly just west of the junction of Argyle and Harrington Streets and disgorged two women, one heavily pregnant, both modestly dressed in long skirts and long sleeved shirts, followed by a toddler girl and baby boy. The women unpacked a pram that was clearly modelled on the traditional carriages favoured by the nannies to the British aristocracy, loaded it up with the children and a couple of nappy bags and began to walk east through Jack Mundey Place as the car disappeared towards the city. The younger, pregnant woman was clearly tense and distressed but her taller, older companion was serene, reassuring her that they were doing the right thing and would all soon be in a much better place.

"It seems so unfair on the children," Parvani Khorasani murmured, tears in her eyes behind her Gucci sunglasses but Qirfa Alsoswa merely touched her briefly on the arm and smiled seraphically.

"The children will be even more welcome by Allah, as they are pure and innocent. Do not fear, Parvani, _insha-Allah_ all will be well."

Unknown and unobserved, the pair continued their walk towards their fate.

 **11:50**

Brendan was out of the train and sprinting down the escalator ahead of most of the crowd, spotting the tall, almost etiolated figures of Samatar and Feysal before he saw his handler. Ducking behind a group of tourists and making sure he stayed out of site of his co-conspirators he approached Uncle Joe casually, leaning against the railing and facing the opposite direction to take in the same view as the older couple not so far away.

"Samatar and Feysal are walking across the park behind us."

Lucas glanced over from behind the protection of his sunglasses and noted the two tall figures walking under the trees, just in time to see one of them slow down at the north-east corner of the park while the other kept going past the front of the Museum of Contemporary Art. As he did so Wisnu, now hooked into the network, whispered in his ear,

"Bravo Four and Five out of the station and walking towards you, Alpha Three. Alpha Two copy."

"Alpha Two," Ilian acknowledged from wherever she was hiding in the crowd. "No sign of Bravo Three yet."

While Brendan continued to avert his face so that Hadad and Abdul-Rahman wouldn't clock him, Lucas allowed his gaze to wander over the crowd approaching from the railway station, identifying Abdul-Rahman immediately by his huge red beard. After the pair walked past, less than ten metres away, and Wisnu had stopped briefly directly in front of him to light a cigarette (the signal for action stations) before moving on, he pushed himself up from where he had been leaning against the railings and muttered,

"Come on, time to get going. Make sure you stay behind me, or preferably go home. You've done your bit."

Brendan's response was instant and vehement.

"No. I've come this far, I want to see it through to the end. Please."

"Let him," Having dimly heard the lad's words _via_ Lucas' comms Lorraine's disembodied voice spoke. "He can positively ID all of them. Just keep him safe."

 **11:51**

Hadad and Abdul-Rahman walked up the side of First Fleet Park to its junction with George Street where, on the footpath in the shade of the trees and the shadow of the overhead railway line they pulled the parts of the drone out of their bags. As the Egyptian began to snap it all together with practiced speed his English companion bade him farewell and after a convincing exhortation to catch up on the other side, in _Firdaws_ , began to walk at speed towards the southern end of Playfair Street and his appointment with Allah. Wisnu elected to stay in view of Hadad and the drone so Lorraine scrambled a couple of under-cover anti-terrorism police to follow the Englishman.

 **11:52**

Further north, Jahan Bolzaar turned the corner into Playfair Street and into the view of a CCTV camera being monitored by Lorraine's crew. The news was passed instantly to the ground personnel as he stood there, contemplating the market stalls and the crowds ahead of him and saying a quiet prayer. To his left a six story brick building, its windows like blank eyes staring at him, lifted its bland face above him while an older, shorter building made from the local honey-coloured sandstone directly bordered the footpath to the right. Checking his watch he realised he only had a few minutes left; hitching the bag containing his AK-47 up on his shoulder he began to politely make his way through the crowds towards the top end of the market, off the tiny, pretty Athenden Street.

In the park, Dahir Samatar was surreptitiously fixing his signal repeater to a small tree on the corner of a path leading from the main walkway above the water and, coincidentally, almost opposite Harry and Ruth, who were watching a busker doing a contortionist show nearby, while Feysal was doing the same thing at the northern end of the lawn outside the Art Museum. The park was filling up quickly, prior to the concert due to start in a few minutes, and the party atmosphere was building; also checking his watch he glanced up towards George Street as the women were due to arrive with the bombs any minute.

Brendan and Lucas were moving north on the grass, towards Feysal's position so they could be half way between the two terrorists. They were near Nev van Ruytenburg, Ilian's senior techie, who was on the scene with a couple of his young specialists, the youngsters ready to move in to neutralise and retrieve the repeaters while Nev himself was armed with a jammer that he guaranteed would wipe out the signal of every mobile phone in the place within a radius of 250 metres.

Harry and Ruth, still by the steps, had been debating whether to move further north, away from the ferry piers, back to their hotel room or around the Quay to the Opera House so they could get a better view of the start of the sailing regatta. At this point, enjoying the weather and atmosphere and seeing the small stage starting to clear in readiness for the start of the concert, they decided to stay where they were for a few minutes and see at least the start of the show.

 **11:53**

Alsoswa and Khorasani were pushing their way through the crowds on the eastern George Street footpath, making slow going because of the crush and hyper-aware of the load they were carrying. Checking her watch, Alsoswa realised they were running behind time and urged the other woman onwards. Baby Mohammed was whimpering, starting to get hungry for his lunch, but she ignored him; soon he would be in Paradise, playing at the feet of Allah and the Prophet and dining on milk and honey for eternity.

Mustafa Abdul-Rahman was one street to the west, walking north on Harrington Street and also battling the crowds. He was itching to get his weapon out and start using it on all these stinking, god-less infidels but they had agreed to wait so wait he would, until he was in place. It would only be a few minutes, anyway.

 **11:55 to 11:59**

Hadad slung his false Press credentials on a lanyard around his neck, picked the drone up and moved out away from the trees as another train rattled overhead and the noise of vehicles on the Cahill Expressway immediately above the rail line was momentarily deafening. The crowd in the park was thick so it was about time he got into position.

As the man powered up the rotors on his machine Ilian, hearing the news through her earpiece, decided to call time. At her word, two more plain-clothes police materialised next to Wisnu and the trio bore down on the Egyptian, having him in handcuffs and his machine under their control within moments. Wisnu then took off at a run towards the top of Playfair Street where Bolzaar was reported to be almost at the top of the markets; the two police officers tailing Abdul-Rahman reported that he was close to the southern end of the market street and that they were closing in on him fast.

The disturbance drew the attention of both the Somalis, Feysal having returned towards First Fleet Park after ensuring his repeater was live, as well as Ruth and Harry. Samatar looked confused and hesitated, looking anxiously for his wife and Khorasani, but Feysal turned and ran, intuitively understanding that it was all over, throwing his backpack full of weapons over the barrier and into the water as he did so. Ilian took off after him but a sudden mass of people pushing in front of her to get into the park forced her to stop and she swore under her breath as the man vanished towards the Overseas Passenger Terminal. She told Lorraine and just had to hope that the police or the army snipers could stop him.

Lucas and Brendan began to forcefully push through the crowds in park, echoed by a number of both uniformed and counter-terrorism police while one of the Tactical Response Team's heavily armoured, black vehicles made it silent, although visible, way around the corner from Alfred Street into George, catching Harry's eye as it did so. Then, about fifty metres away, two men diverted his attention.

"That's Lucas," Harry murmured to Ruth, his eyes glued to his former Section Chief and his wife's gaze followed his, her face turning pale under her tan.

"And Brendan. Don't tell me it's happening after all."

"Looks like it." The adrenaline was beginning to kick in, the old spy's instinct suddenly alive but, well aware of Ruth's propensity to attract nothing but disaster in the field, he knew they had to move. It wasn't their fight, after all. He was about to say as much to her when faint screaming could be heard coming from somewhere north-west of them. It looked like it was too late.

Abdul-Rahman had reached the southern end of the Playfair Street mall and gazed with satisfaction at the packed humanity in front of him, all innocently enjoying their public holiday. He glanced at his watch again: technically it was still too early but only by a minute or so and he just couldn't wait. The past eighteen months of his life had been leading him to this moment of martyrdom in support of the _jihad_ and he was going to enjoy it. Pulling his high-tech weapon out of his bag he yelled a triumphal,

" _Allahu akbar_!" and pulled the trigger. Screams erupted as the deadly rain of steel needles shredded first one, then another teenager, their blood spewing all over the brick paving as the remnants of the shot cut into other bystanders. The crowd panicked and ran, pushing back up Playfair Street and off to the sides, into any open doors or just hitting the deck behind anything they could find. The high was incredible but it didn't last, as the weapon jammed after a couple of seconds. A pair of beat police, hearts in their mouths, came running around the corner from Kendall Lane into Jack Mundey Place and towards Abdul-Rahman; seeing them, the Englishman threw away his now useless gun and, as they came within reach, hauled out the razor sharp cane knife, swinging once and decapitating the young policewoman and then again at her male partner, slicing off his arm below the elbow. The screaming got louder but, unexpectedly, much of the noise was coming from further up the street and the pushing was confused, some people running away from him while others were streaming out and towards him. He didn't have time to think, though; high on the clock tower of the building behind him, an army sniper finally got a clear shot and put a bullet into the back of his shoulder just as the two plain-clothes police who had been tasked with following him arrived. Neither they nor the sniper had a chance to act next, though; a small group of British Army troops, on R &R from Afghanistan, realised what was happening and, as one, fell upon their compatriot, who disappeared under a writhing mass of flailing fists and boots.

At the northern end of Playfair Street both Bolzaar and the crowd had heard the screaming and then saw the pulse of people scrambling to get away. Instantly realising what had happened, Bolzaar uttered up a final prayer for his wife and unborn child, pulled out the AK-47, echoed Abdul-Rahman's exhortation and taken aim. His gun didn't jam and several people went down until Wisnu, lungs almost bursting and muscles burning from the effort, skidded around the corner, saw his target, pulled the pistol out from its shoulder holster under his loose shirt and emptied his magazine into the Iranian, watching without satisfaction as the other man fell, unmoving, to the paving. Breathing heavily he muttered,

"Bravo Three neutralised," and then collapsed against the old sandstone wall. He had been a fraction of a second too late.

Back at the park Samatar finally acted. He had a backup plan with Qirfa, he just had to get to her before she arrived. Glancing around for an escape route he could only see one, where the crowd, now starting to get infected by the sense of panic rippling down from the markets, was thinning as people began to move away from the park. If he could get through over there he could loop around the back of the park and intercept the women. Sensing the net closing around him he ran, initially dodging anyone in his way but actively pushing them when there was no room. He could see the water and the clearer pathway but there were still people in the way so he chose the weakest link, an older couple who were looking directly at him as he approached. They didn't look like they understood what was going on, that they should get out of his way, so he ran straight at them and thrust out an arm to push the old man, who was standing in front of his wife, out of his path.

That was exactly what Harry was banking on. As Samatar attempted to push him he grabbed the offending arm and, using the man's own momentum, pulled him past and tripped him up, the pair of them ending up face-down on the footpath. Kneeling on the Somali's back and still in possession of the man's wrist in a surprisingly iron grip, he twisted the arm up behind Samatar's back, pushing hard enough to make the man groan in pain. He was still wriggling, trying to throw Harry off his back; that man, with great pleasure, leaned over and whispered in his ear, voice effortlessly elegant and chilling,

"I have killed more people like you than you can even begin to imagine. You have two choices: you can stop moving or I will break your neck." On the last word he rammed the man's arm up even further; muscles ripped and Samatar shrieked in agony, immediately stopping all movement in the hope of getting this mad man to let him go.

"What are you doing here?" Lucas' voice was pure disbelief but there was more than a tinge of relief in his voice as he came to a stop.

"Stopping yet another terrorist, by the looks of it. Is anyone around to take charge of him? I would quite like to get off this knee." He couldn't resist applying more pressure, just to hear the man squeal again; jogging footsteps came to a halt and Ilian's voice floated over them.

"They're just about here. Nice work, Laurence." Harry looked up and did a double take, as did Lucas: the normally glamorous woman was dressed in a couple of tattered, tight singlets, ripped denim shorts, dirty running shoes without socks, a baseball cap emblazoned with a well known brand of beer, hair screwed up underneath it, no makeup and huge cheap plastic sunglasses obscuring half her face. A cigarette hung from her lips, she was bedecked in layers of cheap jewellery and several fake, faded tattoos adorned her body. The worst of it was that Lucas had seen her a couple of times this morning and had not recognised her on either occasion. He knew she would take great pleasure in that later but at the moment she wasn't smiling, tensely listening to the whispers in her ear.

"Don't mention it," he responded, aware of her mood but not entirely knowing the reason. Suddenly they were surrounded by police, helping Harry back to his feet while cuffing Samatar prior to leading him away. The man glared at them all and spat.

"You haven't won. You can't stop what is coming."

One of the police pulled at his arm to get him moving, unknowingly the one that Harry had stretched, and they were all slightly gratified by his sudden, mewling acquiescence as he was led away.

 **12.01**

Brendan arrived in time to see his former Imam being led away and joined the small group, urgency written on his face. He had picked up the bag Samatar had been carrying and checked it before tossing it to one of the uniforms and now he was worried.

"It's not over, Uncle Joe, it can't be. There were no bombs. There are supposed to be bombs, going off in—" he looked at his watch "—a bit over a minute. Where are they?"

Ilian, despite her growing sickness as details of what had happened in Playfair Street filtered through her earpiece, grabbed him by the arm to calm him down.

"Are you absolutely sure?"

"Yes! Otherwise why the repeaters? Did you get his phone?"

They all looked at each other; Ilian passed the message on and they saw the group now about to push the man into the paddy-wagon stop, search the detainee's pockets and remove not one but two mobile phones. It wasn't enough for Brendan, though, his eyes were still scanning their surroundings and the crowds now pouring, terrified, down from the massacre at the markets. The others began to follow suit until an intake of breath from the young man alerted them.

"Oh shit, they've got them."

"Who?" Lucas, Ilian and Harry demanded in concert.

"Over there. The two women struggling down the steps from George Street with the big old pram. The pregnant one is Parvani Khorasani, Bolzaar's wife. I presume the other is Qirfa Alsoswa although I've never seen her face before. They have the bombs, they have to. There's no other reason why they would be here."

Ilian didn't wait but ran, swift and light, talking into her comms as she went. Lucas was on her heels and Brendan not far behind, leaving Harry and a shell-shocked Ruth standing sentinel among the fleeing crowds. The two women were at the bottom of the steps now, looking around for Samatar; Lucas finally overtook Ilian half way across the park, eyes glued to Alsoswa as her perplexity turned to understanding and she began to rummage in the nappy bag, saying something to the clearly terrified Khorasani as she did so. Now aware of the approaching trio she looked straight at Lucas as she removed the manual trigger from the bag.

Brendan shouted,

"No, Uncle Joe!" and launched himself into a low rugby tackle just as Alsoswa screamed,

" _Allahu akbar_!" and pressed the button.

The world went white.


	8. Chapter 8

**7\. 01/02/2015 St Vincent's Hospital, Sydney**

 _No matter where you were,_ Ruth pondered as they walked through the front doors for the umpteenth time, _hospitals were all the same. Impersonal, sterile, slightly battered around the edges, full of despair but also full of hope._ She had got to know them well, for various reasons, in the UK, Cyprus and here and at all scales, from the small to the massive, but they all felt the same. This time around, at least, the experience hadn't been all bad.

The first time they had come here the place had been like, in fact was, something on the front line of a war somewhere. The worst of the casualties had already started to arrive by the time she and Harry had got there with their own victims. At first the staff had assumed they were some of the injured as they were in such a mess but Harry had immediately put them right and they had been regular visitors every day since.

They were supposed to have been home by now but the events of Australia Day had put paid to that; moving out of their luxury hotel on Tuesday morning ( _they would forever treasure the memory of their return to that hotel the evening of the blast when they were greeted with uniformly horrified expressions and a parting of the other guests reminiscent of the biblical parting of the Red Sea. Exhausted, they puzzled mildly over the reaction until they arrived at the bank of elevators and saw their reflections where the sight of their clothes, stained darkly with dried blood, reminded them that they weren't looking exactly spick and span. For some reason they had both found it funny and had fallen into the lift, laughing weakly, to the bemusement of others nearby)_ they had found a much cheaper serviced apartment up near Central Station where they had the joy of sleeping with ear plugs because of the constant tooting from trains plunging into the subway opposite but were much closer to the hospital.

As they threaded their way through the endless corridors to the wards, occasionally greeting or being greeted by staff members with whom they had come to be familiar over the past few days, they quietly reflected on how that had changed since Monday as well. When they had returned on Tuesday morning they had stopped in first at the surgical wards to see Brendan who, to their surprise, had been sitting up in bed looking remarkably chipper for someone who had been partially scalped by a piece of shrapnel and was suffering from a fractured elbow along with minor burns and bruising from the blast. Surrounded by his family he had grinned at them and called a thanks to Ruth for her speedy work in slapping the skin flap back on his skull and otherwise making him comfortable ( _she and Harry had, unlike almost everyone else in the vicinity, ran towards the centre of the blast once the shock-wave was past; although there were many other injured they had their own priorities and she had taken Brendan and Lucas while Harry had made a bee-line for Ilian. Brendan was conscious, lucid and covered in blood but Ruth had quickly realized that his wounds were reasonably superficial so had laid the skin flap back in place to minimize infection, sat him up and helped him find a position for his arm that was slightly less than excruciating and then turned to her former work-mate)_ before airily introducing the woman in her late forties who had stood up when they had peered through the door and was now approaching them with a wide, relieved smile. So, finally, they had met Ruby Walters.

After a brief chat they had moved on to the intensive care unit. As the closest hospital to the events and renowned around the country for their trauma skills, St Vincents had received the most seriously injured, among them Lucas. Although Brendan's tackle had effectively saved his life he had still taken the brunt of the blast with resultant burns, bruising, shrapnel wounds to the head, shoulders and chest and a broken wrist and collar-bone but the thing that had the doctors worried was the massive crack to his head that he had taken from hitting the concrete footpath. He had been unconscious when Ruth reached him so she had put him in the recovery position and tended to his wounds as best she could. He had been kept in an induced coma for twenty four hours while the medical staff had closely monitored him for any signs of swelling or bleeding in the brain; it had proved unnecessary in the finish but he had still been out to it when Harry and Ruth arrived so they had stayed outside, contenting themselves with a look through the window to ensure that he looked about as well as could be expected under the circumstances.

Finally had come the visit they were both dreading yet desperate to undertake: Ilian. Harry now had another day of blood and a desperate fight to save a woman in his life to haunt him… _as before, on the Estuary, he had gone into automatic pilot when he had caught sight of the blood only this time it had been too much and too fast: Ilian, although otherwise apparently unharmed, was sprawled in an ungainly manner on the bright green grass, bright red blood staining her skin and her clothes and the ground around her. Recognising what was happening he had run, faster than he had for years, to find his fears realized. A piece of shrapnel from the exploding pram had sliced the femoral artery in her leg and she was bleeding out in front of him; without thinking, he had knelt next to her, jammed his fist into the wound in her thigh and pushed as hard as he could to stop the flow and shouted for an ambulance. She had groaned and turned bleary eyes on him; smiling lazily she had murmured a throaty,_

" _Hello, Harry," before wincing in pain and uttering a salty curse. "Do you always treat your women this roughly?"_

 _He had smiled grimly at her, relieved that she was talking but desperately worried. If he couldn't stop the bleeding…_

" _Only the ones I care about."_

 _Her laugh had been barely audible._

" _I must be really special, then…"_

 _Her voice had faded out and her brilliant eyes had closed; after a moment he slapped her face, first gently then with more force._

" _Come on, Ilian. Wake up. I didn't lose Iona; I'm not about to lose you, either."_

 _Her eyes opened again._

" _God, is that your seduction technique? No wonder I prefer women!" She reached a hand up to touch his cheek, weakly, before it flopped back to her side. "I still wonder about that mouth of yours, though!" Her black humour in the situation suddenly threw him back past the Estuary to a man on a rainy street in London whose life ebbed away under his touch: Ilian and Jim would have got on famously, had they ever met. Smiling crookedly back at her he had responded,_

" _If you promise to not die on me I might let you try it out one day!"_

" _Promises, promises…"_

 _At that point a flotilla of ambulances had arrived and squadrons of paramedics descended on the injured, including two who dropped to his side and, after a rapid briefing from him, taken charge. He had been infinitely relieved when they had quickly got her onto a stretcher and began to work on stabilizing her; looking around, he saw another group of medics working with Lucas and Brendan and others swarming all over the park. Exchanging glances with his wife they had immediately understood and, without further words, each had accompanied their friends to the hospital in the ambulances._

 _Ilian had been worked on all the way there with Harry surprising the paramedic by his skilled assistance but once they had arrived at the hospital she, along with Lucas, Brendan and several others, had disappeared behind swinging doors which were denied to the public and the older couple had finally had a chance to stop and take stock of what had happened. Falling into each others arms they had both wept, with relief and grief in equal proportions, until a triage nurse had come to treat them, their blood-stained clothing making him think they were injured. After that had come half an hour of scrubbing in an attempt to clean up and then endless cups of tea and coffee to help pass the equally endless hours of waiting. It was only spiced up by dealing with a terrified High Court Judge who had arrived while Ilian was still in theatre and had panicked when she had walked into the war zone of the Emergency Department and saw their bloodied clothes, until Ruth had managed to calm her down. Then it was back to more waiting until they knew that their personal trio had made it through their various surgeries and onto the wards…_

The next morning they had arrived at the door to Ilian's room in the intensive care unit only to find their access blocked by a small, ferocious and very protective grey-haired woman of about Harry's own age. Putting a hand out she had ordered, blue-grey eyes fierce,

"No entry without clearance. Turn around and go away."

There were two police officers inside, behind her, watching closely; tantalisingly, they could just see the end of the bed but no more. Having worked out what the unknown woman was although not who, Harry and Ruth were about to turn around and leave when Ruby, accompanied by an Asian man, approached.

"It's okay, Lorraine. This is the couple who saved our people, Nathan's former work colleagues from London. They're safe."

That was how they met Lorraine Curtis and, finally, Wisnu Haryanto. Lorraine and Ruby granted them access, putting them on the visitor's list but, after a quick glance into the room where Ilian was lying motionless, buried under tubes and wires with an exhausted Meg asleep on a trundle bed, they had all turned away and gone to the cafeteria, where the English couple had found out just how close they had come to losing Ilian.

 _Wisnu had rubbed his hands over his face, weariness making him hollow-eyed._

" _She came within an inch of not making it, you know. She had almost bled out – if it hadn't been for you she would have – and needed multiple transfusions." He stirred his tea in a desultory way. "Then she went into cardiac arrest in the operating theatre. Twice. But they brought her back." Harry had remained impassive but Ruth, acutely attuned to him after so many years, knew, and silently reached out to take his hand. Neither of them had needed this but her husband in particular, who had lost so many and so much over the years, most certainly had not…_

That had been then. Now, five days later, they were on first name status with some of the staff and things had improved beyond recognition. Brendan, young, fit, shorn of his beard and with his swollen scalp almost returned to a normal appearance, had already been discharged – they had bade him farewell two days ago – and Lucas was ready to go today so they had ducked in to see Ilian first for a last catch up before they themselves hit the road towards the far north again.

Moved out of ICU the same day that Brendan had gone home and after two days of being held in an induced coma, she was now in her own quiet, private room and, on this Saturday, had almost fully recovered her ebullience and energy, to the extent that she was now restless to get out and go home herself. After spending some time letting her grumble about how the medical staff were insistent that she stay to recuperate for a couple more days – _and Meg was agreeing with them!_ – she settled down and fixed them with a suspiciously bland look.

"I've got an update for you if you like."

Harry and Ruth raised eyebrows at each other before he asked, equally bland,

"We would like. About what?"

"The death toll."

It had been horrendous. Fifteen dead, including Alsoswa's two children and Khorasani's unborn baby with twice that many badly injured. Coming so soon after the events of the Lindt Café the city and the country as a whole had been badly shaken and, over the days since, had been torn between deep soul-searching and recriminations. The funerals had already started but there had been no more deaths over the past couple of days. Until now, apparently.

"It's gone up by one. Abdul-Rahman." _The one who had so appallingly beheaded the young police-woman, leaving her five year old daughter motherless, and literally shredded a pair of young exchange students with a weapon the likes of which had not been seen on the streets before anywhere on the planet._ When that had come out Ruth, and even Harry, had been sickened and disgusted but, sadly, not really surprised. Harry had been aware of the technology for years but, the last he had heard, the Australian developers had been bought out by the US military so he had never expected to see it in the hands of terrorists on the streets of Sydney. _At least the police-man had survived, the very sharpness of the cane knife allowing surgeons to reattach his arm with, so far, no major problems._ Neither of them felt the slightest bit of sorrow for the former Englishman's death, or for the savage beating he had taken off the Army vets that had very nearly completed the job that the sniper's bullet had started, but they were curious about the news as, from all reports, he had been recovering.

"Really," Harry stated drily, waiting for her to expand.

"Mmm. He died early this morning. It's all a bit mysterious and unexpected because he seemed to have been getting better but he just upped and croaked. You'd almost think he'd been offed but that can't be the case because he was under police guard all the time and no-one went in after dinner."

As her words, apparently innocently puzzled, tailed off the steel behind them and the flash in her eyes told the truth. The law enforcers had delivered their own form of justice for their slain colleague.

"Sad," Ruth commented, as disinterested as Ilian's words apparently were. Because of Brendan Abdul-Raman was extraneous to the investigation anyway, although it would have been useful to have got something from him. If they could. And at least it saved the taxpayer the cost of keeping him in prison for the rest of his useless life.

"Not really," was the other woman's response. "One more piece of scum washed off the streets. Speaking of which, ISIS have claimed responsibility."

Harry snorted.

"They would. Is there any proof?"

"No." Ilian's reply was almost a sneer. "But that pond-slime will claim everything they can. Including this. Bastards." She straightened up on her bed, wincing at the pain from the bruising and fractured rib in her back that she had sustained when she had hit the ground from the bomb blast. The shrapnel wounds and burns on her face and upper chest were starting to fade but, like Lucas', would leave an interesting patina for the rest of her life but none of it was dimming the glow in her eyes. "Speaking of bastards, there's still no trace of Feysal. It's starting to look like he's got away although whether he's still in the country or not is anyone's guess. No-one's spotted him leaving by any official means but... It's the same with some of the peripherals. We've rounded up most of them but there are one or two whom we're still trying to identify. Who it was driving the stolen cars that dropped Bolzaar and the women off, for starters."

They all sat around in silence for a few moments, pondering. Ruth was hopeful that the noose was tight and that Feysal was still in the country but Harry and Ilian were more pessimistic. They were both of the opinion that he had probably scarpered the same day as the attack: in fact, Harry was cynical enough to suspect that the man had never intended to hang around at all and presumably had his departure organized long before, showing just how much he actually cared about his unfortunate wife and child. The sod was probably in Syria already, truth be told. He said as much and Ilian gave him a measured look, silently pleased that she wasn't the only one thinking that way. In fact, only yesterday she had told Ruby to get a crew onto checking all departures from the airport from an hour after Feysal had disappeared: they already had a few possibles. She wouldn't mention it now, though, no point.

Ruth, who knew how these things worked and had been following the press coverage, finally asked,

"How is the political side of things, or don't I ask? I've been noting the manoeuvrings and recriminations getting well into their groove for the past couple of days."

Ilian rolled her eyes.

"Grim. It was the bloody Attorney General and a couple of his mates who put the kybosh on us pulling this mob before they could do anything, now butter wouldn't melt in their mouths and the shit sure as hell won't stick to their Teflon-coated hides. They're already trying to shift the blame, of course, onto us for screwing it up but unfortunately for them they've got Hope and the new DG to contend with so they won't be getting away with that: we know where all the real bodies are buried, after all, if they're stupid enough to continue to push it." She sighed. "No doubt some hapless, disposable bastard's head will roll as a sacrifice to the baying hounds of the press and the slavering jaws of a populace who hate us on principle without knowing the first thing about what we actually do for them. It's the side of the job I hate the most, you know. The politics. But then I don't need to tell either of you two anything about that, do I?"

They had paid the ultimate sacrifice because of politics, despite everything they had done for their country, but in a strange way it had liberated them into a life they could never have imagined, a life that they now would never give up; she just hoped that, no matter how her career turned out in the long run, she could only emulate their happiness.

A tap at the door drew attention; all eyes turning that way, they saw Lucas standing in the doorway, a slight woman with a shock of white hair behind him. Hazel. After greetings and introductions were exchanged all round Lucas announced that he had been officially discharged and that Hazel was here to take him home so he had come to bid them all farewell for the moment. Ilian, despite her apparent enthusiasm, had been looking tired for the past few minutes so they didn't hang around, the older couple leaving her with the invitation to come up and spend some time with them to recuperate, an invitation she accepted with alacrity and an obscure comment about "being on a promise" which Harry would explain to a laughing Ruth some time later. Some days parked up in a roman villa in the tropics with her feet up and in good company around whom she could say anything appealed immensely.

The quartet didn't move fast as Lucas was still stiff and sore all over, like his boss, but nonetheless it was only a couple of minutes before they were all back out the front in the shade of the veranda. The day was sunny but still cool with a light southerly wind blowing and adding to the unusual chill; at this hour on a Sunday morning the area was quiet, with few people around although they could hear the yells of some children playing in the park over the road. They stood, chatting, for a little longer but there wasn't much extra to say so, sooner rather than later, they were bidding each other good-bye. Hazel made a crack about taking Nathan home so he could deliver an explanation; he exchanged looks with Harry and Ruth before saying,

"It's okay, she knows."

"Well, 'she' knows what he does for a quid but that's about it," the 'she' in question added, "but it's about time he started telling me a bit more. And don't worry, my grandmother spent three years behind enemy lines in France in the war, living under assumed identities, terrorizing both the Vichy French and the Nazis by blowing things and people up and, occasionally, killing them in cold blood. And yet she was the loveliest, warmest, most gentle person I've ever known. I don't know what any of you have done but I don't imagine it to be too much different."

The older couple were impressed by her pragmatic take on things but still wondered how she would take it when she found out absolutely everything about Lucas and his past – if he had any sense he would drip feed it to her but whether he ever made it to Dakar or not would be entirely up to them. The old Harry wouldn't have, had he been in Lucas' position, but the new one probably would. As long as Hazel turned out to be Lucas' Ruth…

Hazel had used her contacts within the hospital – she had done part of her physiotherapy training there and still occasionally did locum work for them – to pull a parking space in the staff car park so they parted at the entrance with warm affection and promises to catch up in person more often, including also taking up the older couple's offer of somewhere to recuperate, and then went their separate ways. The Subaru was parked further up the road and they had just reached it, with Ruth fishing the keys out of her handbag, when the younger pair went past in Lucas' Hilux with a toot and a wave. Another street, another car vanishing around a corner but this time, unlike in Cairns a couple of years before, after Capricorn Downs, this time the parting was happier and far more positive. And it wasn't raining.

"How do you think they'll go?" Ruth asked as they got into the car. Harry knew she wasn't talking about the drive back to Siding Bay.

"I think they'll be fine. I doubt there's too much that will come as a surprise to Hazel and she will be the steadying influence he needs. Which he will need if there's going to be a step-daughter in the mix." They grinned at each other at that prospect. Overhead a kookaburra burst into raucous laughter from its perch among the green and Harry suddenly winked at her. "Home, James, and don't spare the horses!"

 **A/N: That's all for this one. I would like to thank all of you for reading and a special thanks to those of you who have reviewed as the feedback is always greatly appreciated.**


End file.
